West Coast Mentality

[Ras Kass] Strike three, hehe It's-just-thug-men-tal-i-ty, nigga.. Ha, YEAHHH, ha, yeah-YEAHHH, uh-uhh, uhh.. Ras Kass register Richter with nine point eight tectonic plate quakes Firm rubber no breaks, California plates Golden State Catch me sittin on the roof, bumpin Snoop "Gin and Juice" reminiscin bout the rides and gang truce Seventy degrees in the winter - tropical weather And vendettas cause L.A. niggas be all about they cheddar Hoochie bitches and B.G.'s too big for they britches Curb servin, they double up to get richer Fuck around them lil' niggas comin to get'cha and get wit'cha Dump until six hit'cha, don't let the sunshine and palm trees Fool you get the picture, niggas be in Hollywood thinkin it's all good But everything South of Wilshire, is all hood Niggas committin murder Later that night at Tommy's eatin a chili-cheese burger Menace II Society, seen that Kobe and Shaq - Lakers bout to bring the championship ring back From Ladera Heights to Venice Beach Dime pieces with BMW leases and Cartier timepieces I was born to raise West coast til my casket drop Throw up a dub, spittin at the camera like 'Pac, ptooey Chorus: Ras Kass (repeat 2X) Would y'all get down for me, I'mma represent my town So y'all represent y'all town for me If a G's gettin made, put it down with me Homey that's a West Coast Mentality [Ras Kass] Three-hundred and ten angels, flossin nine-hundred and nine fandangles Two-hundred and thirteen sets to gangbang too Three-hundred and twenty-three hungry homies want steak Never been greedy, if I ate/eight, one-eight (donate) So if I gotta choose a coast, I got to choose the West Born and raised out there, so don't - go there Oh yeah, I'm the illest nigga, clownin y'all fools With everything y'all say like Luther Luffeigh I swoop through L.A. ho, bendin y'all bitches like clay dough Fuck what you say doe, these streets are fatal pendejo So everywhere I go I take West coast with me Home of the driveby, Thug Life and dickies What you know about silk shirts (huh?) Cross corded snakeskin belts, flippin off the front porch Lesson number one - niggas don't give a fuck And lesson number two remember lesson number one Chorus [Ras Kass] See in L.A., niggas don't walk, niggas drive whips with beats Weak niggas trick, most niggas say bitches ain't shit But hoes gotta eat too, they all be at Club Lingerie With a gay down to meet you But fuck a three-piece suit Y'all niggas dressin like y'all goin to church Either me and my homies get in lookin like this or we skert (errrrrrrrrr) and if they bullshittin, we just parkin-lot pimpin' Sunday night, Jamaican gold, hip-hop and cheeba Tuesday lesbian divas be up in Peanuts (what) I be fuckin baby girl and her stud Plus she said my dick was big, my shit be up in the gut Waittress bitch tryin to front like we broke, "Whattup loc?" Give me a Henn' and O.J. without slashin Nicole's throat C-arson nigga, I'm just the illest emcee All California Love, rest in peace Bigga B Chorus 2X