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