Lyric Survival 1st
[Featuring Lunasice Marvaless]
(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.
Verse 1:
(C-Bo)
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.
Verse 2:
(Lunasice)
I m wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead,
Cuz 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)
Verse 3:
(C-Bo)
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 nigga that step in my range.
Retalliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain.
So remain calm, this shit is C-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.
Verse 4:
(Marvaless)
Survival first, ask questions later.
Movin patterns on your bitch-ass cuz I heard that you was a hater. Oh
who
can save ya?
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 niggas stackin meal tickets.
Surpassin weak bitches, evadin snitches, and sayin bomb.
Killafornia style when we ride droppin bombs.
Verse 5:
(C-Bo)
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.
Till 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)
Verse 6:
(C-Bo)
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 wanna ride on me?
(chorus to end)
(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.
Verse 1:
(C-Bo)
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.
Verse 2:
(Lunasice)
I m wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead,
Cuz 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)
Verse 3:
(C-Bo)
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 nigga that step in my range.
Retalliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain.
So remain calm, this shit is C-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.
Verse 4:
(Marvaless)
Survival first, ask questions later.
Movin patterns on your bitch-ass cuz I heard that you was a hater. Oh
who
can save ya?
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 niggas stackin meal tickets.
Surpassin weak bitches, evadin snitches, and sayin bomb.
Killafornia style when we ride droppin bombs.
Verse 5:
(C-Bo)
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.
Till 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)
Verse 6:
(C-Bo)
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 wanna ride on me?
(chorus to end)
