[Chorus]
California's the state where punk niggas die.
First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise.
So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes.
It's just some ballin' ass niggas down to die for the West Side.
California's the state where all bustas die.
First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise.
So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes.
It's just some ballin'-ass niggas down to die for the West Side.
It could be the napalm, droppin' non stop bombs,
Armed like vietnam, dominatin' like King Kong.
Lyrical madness, step up, take up, and start blastin'.
Wicked as Stephen King when my mental and vocal clashes.
Syrran wrap, like a boa constrictor, wrappin' ya.
Up from your feet to your neck, nigga, attackin' ya.
These 4-5 hollow tips will have you backin' up.
I only do my dirt at night like dracula.
I'm wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead,
'Cause I done spread through their territory like the HIV.
Sun down spots, suckas swallow glocks.
If they know by these rocks I'm pushin' for the blocks.
Every corner you past, that show will run him up in his ass.
Gettin' the cash, while Mr. Bad puts down the smash.
I dumps quick, my clique be so thick,
With hi-tech mob shit, crooked as Soviet.
[Chorus]
The house on the water, independent shippin' quarters,
Movin' tapes like K across every border.
Takin' over your brain, causin' addiction like 'caine,
More deadly than a grand shot of Heroine in the vein.
Inflict pain, on any nigger that step in my range.
Retaliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain.
So remain calm, this shit is see-4 bomb,
Set trip off your motherfuckin' city like 'Nam.
Best recognize, step up and check eyes.
Ain't to many busta-ass niggas from the West Side.
I do or die for mine, livin' life like I'm blind.
Solo on a flame line, dumpin' hollow tip 9's.
Survival first, ask questions later.
Movin' patterns on your bitch-ass 'cause I heard that you was a hater.
Oh who can save you?
Defeated your purpose, now you caught up in some deep shit.
Who got the deepest murder clique, that's some would sick.
This game is way past wicked. Still I commence to kick it.
West side niggers stackin' meal tickets.
Surpassin' weak bitches, evadin' snitches, and sayin' bomb.
Killafornia style when we ride droppin' bombs.
Palay Palay, Tommy Hilfiger cold, can I?
Polo, Jabo, Guess, Khakis and Levis.
Ballers is what they call us, too much for the ATL.
Lexus, Benz, Beemer, Vet, VIP, 112.
Might catch me at the Platinum, sippin' on some Hen, rolex down,
Ride ST 400 Lex through the town.
Clown, and you'll catch a hot metal tab up to the chest.
Don't make me kill a nigga out east and head West Side.
'Til I die, reason why, I stay high,
To maintain my composure and attitude when I ride.
Don' push me, I'm too close to the edge
Might take one to the head.
[Chorus: x2]
It's the season of the sickness, marks on my shitlist.
Comin' up out the psychadelic bui'ness, don't sit in it.
When I gets to bustin', I let loose like a Mac-10.
I'm born and raised a hustler, got love for my family, fuck friends.
Never been disgusted, but I just like love it,
Wit my streetsweeper, put hoes in your bucket.
Man, I just say fuck it, I can't live with society.
Now, how many niggas in yo clique want to ride on me?
[Chorus]
