(chorus)
California's the state, where punk n***as 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 n***as 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 n***as 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, n***a, 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 n***as, 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 n***a 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 n***as 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 n***as 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 n***a 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 n***as in yo clique wanna ride on me?

(chorus to end)