[DJ Khaled]

Give it to DJ Khaled for doing it [?], big dog, Pitbull, Terror Squadian AKA the Beat Novacane!
REMIX! REMIX! REMIX! Listennn!
Dre! (This Is, This Is)
Pusha! (This Is, This Is, This Is)
The Game! (This Is, This Is, This Is)
Fat Joe! (This Is, This Is, This Is)
Rick Ross!
Listennn!


[Verse 1: Pusha]
If he claims king and he claim best, then I guess you can call me God,
There's none higher, none flyer
The kingpin is back, Louis Vuitton frames hide the face of the supplier
Peek-a-boo take a look at what these kilos do
Air-condition the Jacob watch is Freon blue
A hundred thousand it should come with some mileage too
Give me the option to get it serviced at Jiffy Lube
3 years gone, feds tapping the phone
Rappers downloading my style, I'm feeling like a ringtone
Yuck, the hiatus tried to mini-me me
Triple beams to BAPE jeans they'll never be me
Re-up gang known as the kilo shoppers
Ridin’ Chevys give us room to reload choppers
Gourmet beef serving n***as Fillet Oscar
So many bitches screaming we should promote operas
[Verse 2: The Game]
Chevy ridin’ high boy, look at the hot wheels
If you hotheaded, we gonna pop steel
And when I pop the trunk you see a lotta pumps
I'll make the ass bounce like a bitch in some Prada pumps
I drive 6 tre’s, 6 Fo's, the wheels 6 Fo's, watch that ass get low
And I'm the rapping assassin, ask Rick Ross
Ganstas don’t dance we make the car do the Laffy Taffy
I ain’t Yung Joc, but I got a motor bike
And I gotta ho I like she like to do the motor bike
I'm from Murdaville, and I rep the Dodgers
Throwing white bars out that 6 Fo Impala

[Verse 3: Dre]
No it's not the doctor, but it's still D.R.E
Trying to move them units like the Chronic did in '93
On that 95 doing 95, let four of them things go for like 95
Black Dickie set, black Chevrolet Impala
Trunk full of that black market pack product
Game hit me told me black wall street pop ya colla’
Pusha T, I got your back n***a I'm a holla
They trying to JFK ya boy, No!
The media and paper's trying to blame ya boy, No!
But the only thing getting' dropped because of me is the roof on the 7 tre Chevy Caprice

[Chorus:]
Chevy ridin’ high boy, Chevy ridin’ high boy, Chevy ridin’ high
Bumpin the gangsta music
Chevy, Chevy ridin’ high boy, Chevy ridin’ high boy, Chevy ridin’ high
Bumpin the gangsta music
[Verse 4: Fat Joe]
Throw your money in the air n***as, put ya sets up
If you ready to ride and down to wet something
Its coca baby, say it with conviction
The A's hate me, I got no convictions
They won’t leave me 'til they greet me with life
Catching up with old friends is like speaking to the mic
And I ain’t mister innocent, but something ain’t right
When it's five dark skinned in the line-up and I'm light
My life's a movie, ya love to hate me
GT bars, double exhaust baby
It's all bubbles when you sitting on mills
Then you fuck the game up with them Puerto Rico grills

[Verse 5: Rick Ross]
My gun shot whips squat
Ridin’ on them air shocks
Ice cream got the car painted like a blow pop, Ross
No top, just guts in the glass house
Ten blocks, no cut in my last house
Pull the pots watch out I'm a chef
It's Ricky Ross, I'm the boss and the fucking best
I'ma burn rubba (rubba)
I'ma burn cheese (cheese)
I'ma burn yeese, boy I'm trying to earn these
[Verse 6: Dirt Bag]
I'm on that reefer and liquor
When on the block gotta pitcher
The public see me in my Chevy got a star, they want pictures
We ridin [?] and vogues
30's and lows
Now its 26 bitch's throwing up doors
[?] call me styles and Latino's call me sucio
Chevy ridin’ high like you seen a U.F.O
Haters be creeping cuz all that work I be leaping
Now and laters be leaking, elevators can’t reach 'em, baby

[Chorus]