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Viewing Lyrics for Survival 1st:
| | | Artist: | C |
| | Album: | West Coast Bad Boyz II | | Track: | Survival 1st | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 20 | | | | Lyrics: | 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 | | | |
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