[Featuring Spice-1, King Tee] Intro: Yeah, Young jock up in this beezee Claiming and representing that S-P geezee shit Putting it down with my nigga the big bad ass Spice 1 and King T High siding and westside riding Got my nigga from the feezee up in this beezee We doing big thangs in the nine seezee Kicking bitches in the booty and pointing out their duty Yeah any motherfucker that wanna try us knows where to find us Motherfucker King Tee: This shit couldn't get no harder Niggas is about to make me flip and commit manslaughter All my dreams result to nightmares So I walk around the hood strapped like I don't care Truth or dare, I dare you to dis the west coast The truth is them niggas will split your vest loc With hollowpoint slugs, Crips and Bloods, we come deep And roll in those Range Rover Jeeps I was a made man at fifteen years Cuz momma didn't raise no faggotty queer I got paid fronting bad colors in the ninth grade And on the westside is where I play Straight sick, when my big uncle smoked dip And grabbed his four four and took me with him on a lick And sure as the sun will come up and just shine The niggas couldn't believe the Rolex was all mine Spice-1: Yeah divine niggas the lexxy shine and the fetty Motherfuckers ain't ready, see they won't hold their heads steady when we come with the fifty caliber Desert Eagle Feeling you motherfuckers over slugs equal You these diamonds on the pinky, Rolex up on the wrist Next nigga run up on me for my pieces is catching whole clips No sucker to the G-A in me You fail to realize sometimes that I dump on G-P Black Bossalini, King T-E-E and S-P-I Born to die, westside riding staying high 187 proof a ma-a-mack ten shooter Hope the ba-a-black talons go right through you Been mobbing since a youngster, laced like hundred spokes Ain't no rules in the game, niggas die and go for broke He didn't no I was strapped, he didn't no I was ready Blow a hole in his chest and take off with a nigga's fetty Chorus: Real killers on the westside don't be fooled We in the sun where the kids wear their vests to school Soft niggas don't survive they be taking a dive (West Side) Refuse to leave them player haters alive Real killers on the westside don't be fooled We out west where the kids wear their vests to school Soft niggas don't survive they be taking a dive (West Side) Refuse to leave them player haters alive King Tee: Ah yes all the way to niggas in projects That heard about the King that be strapped with two techs Rolling in a Lex with them twenty inch chrome rims Trying to find a ho for some trim Laid back, smoking on the doja loc At the light all the hos watch me cough and choke Young player, can I take a ride with you Hell no, can I trust my life with you You look shady just left four ??? with four babies And I can hear your ass screaming save me Trick I'm in a zone guns, clips and chipped up phones And Vibe tapes of old love songs straight gone Dipping and giving a fuck at who's tripping Catch a nigga at the airport slipping Huh, what a shame send his ass back from where it came in a casket California love turned drastic I'm come G'd up, niggas getting beat up And I'm smoking all their dirt cess weed up King T's G style got them hiding Cuz this is what we call west riding Spice-1: See some of the haters try to fade you partner, but ain't nobody coming close I keep some scissors up in the cut, so give me ten feet at the most Ain't no generic artificial, Realer than you can imagine Passing out in the back of limos with a lap full of cash and mashing Dreaming of mad tales, with waterfalls in swimming pools I'm living the life of a rap star Eighty thousand dollar cars, jaccuzzi rooms with minibars Hit the casino dropping fetty on tables smoking Cuban cigars You need to quit Sprinkle a motherfucker that will leave you split Tore back ass out bringing you your hat Flat broke, talking about fuck that nigga S-P-I But you can't go one on one Spice 1 because I'm born to die I gets medieval up on they ass like punk bitches in ditches The gangsterism resulting in murderism Bailing up in your hooptie at the gas station You facing the killer for real-a punk ass nigga Where the scrilla Jacking you for your shit, taking your ends pull off my mask Hitting the corner, hopping up in my Benz with your cash Mobbing I mash out, you ass out Left you shot up in your seven-trey glasshouse Chorus West side Riding while we getting higher That's the way we do it West side Riding while we getting higher That's the way we do it On the Westside