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[Featuring Lunasice Marvaless]
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(chorus)
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California's the state where punk niggas die.
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First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise.
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So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes.
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It's just some ballin' ass niggas down to die for the West Side.
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California's the state where all bustas die.
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First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise.
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So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes.
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It's just some ballin'-ass niggas down to die for the West Side.
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Verse 1:
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(C-Bo)
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It could be the napalm, droppin' non stop bombs,
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Armed like vietnam, dominatin' like King Kong.
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Lyrical madness, step up, take up, and start blastin'.
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Wicked as Stephen King when my mental and vocal clashes.
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Syrran wrap, like a boa constrictor, wrappin' ya.
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Up from your feet to your neck, nigga, attackin' ya.
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These 4-5 hollow tips will have you backin' up.
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I only do my dirt at night like dracula.
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Verse 2:
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(Lunasice)
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I'm wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead,
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Cuz I done spread through their territory like the HIV.
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Sun down spots, suckas swallow glocks.
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If they know by these rocks I'm pushin' for the blocks.
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Every corner you past, that show will run him up in his ass.
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Gettin' the cash, while Mr. Bad puts down the smash.
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I dumps quick, my clique be so thick,
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With hi-tech mob shit, crooked as Soviet.
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(chorus)
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Verse 3:
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(C-Bo)
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The house on the water, independent shippin' quarters,
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Movin' tapes like K across every border.
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Takin' over your brain, causin' addiction like 'caine,
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More deadly than a grand shot of Heroine in the vein.
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Inflict pain, on any nigga that step in my range.
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Retalliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain.
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So remain calm, this shit is C-4 bomb,
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Set trip off your motherfuckin' city like 'Nam.
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Best recognize, step up and check eyes.
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Ain't to many busta-ass niggas from the West Side.
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I do or die for mine, livin' life like I'm blind.
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Solo on a flame line, dumpin' hollow tip 9's.
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Verse 4:
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(Marvaless)
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Survival first, ask questions later.
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Movin' patterns on your bitch-ass cuz I heard that you was a hater. Oh
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who
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can save ya?
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Defeated your purpose, now you caught up in some deep shit.
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Who got the deepest murder clique, that's some would sick.
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This game is way past wicked. Still I commence to kick it.
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West side niggas stackin' meal tickets.
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Surpassin' weak bitches, evadin' snitches, and sayin' bomb.
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Killafornia style when we ride droppin' bombs.
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Verse 5:
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(C-Bo)
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Palay Palay, Tommy Hilfiger cold, can I?
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Polo, Jabo, Guess, Khakis and Levis.
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Ballers is what they call us, too much for the ATL.
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Lexus, Benz, Beemer, Vet, VIP, 112.
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Might catch me at the Platinum, sippin' on some Hen, rolex down,
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Ride ST 400 Lex through the town.
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Clown, and you'll catch a hot metal tab up to the chest.
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Don't make me kill a nigga out east and head West Side.
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Till I die, reason why, I stay high,
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To maintain my composure and attitude when I ride.
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Don' push me, I'm too close to the edge
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Might take one to the head.
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(chorus X2)
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Verse 6:
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(C-Bo)
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It's the season of the sickness, marks on my shitlist.
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Comin' up out the psychadelic bui'ness, don't sit in it.
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When I gets to bustin', I let loose like a Mac-10.
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I'm born and raised a hustler, got love for my family, fuck friends.
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Never been disgusted, but I just like love it,
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Wit my streetsweeper, put hoes in your bucket.
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Man, I just say fuck it, I can't live with society.
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Now, how many niggas in yo clique wanna ride on me?
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(chorus to end)
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-----------------
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survival 1st
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c bo |