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. niggaz 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’niggaz 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, niggaz be in Hollywood thinkin it’s all good

But everything South of Wilshire, is all hood

Niggaz 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’ma 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

Three-hundred and ten angels, flossin nine-hundred and nine fdangles (?)

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. hoe, 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 — niggaz don’t give a fuck

and lesson number two remember lesson number one

See in L.A., niggaz don’t walk, niggaz drive whips with beats

Weak niggaz trick, most niggaz 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 niggaz 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.