Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 

Through the park, past the dog run 
Smell of shit burning in the sun 
Watch the cab, dent his door 
Happy hours here let's pick up Jorge 
Lock 'em up, lock 'em up, lock 'em up
Three cold beers, in a cup

Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 

Inside Coney something ain't right
Too many people on a Friday night
I can't see straight in the flashing lights
But, I got a feeling there's gonna be a fight 
Pack it up, wrap it up, saddle up 
Full tank of liquor, in our guts 

Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 

Drink em down, we gotta a ride 
Going out through the lower east side 
Day or night, mags on the run 
Looking for trouble, looking for fun 
BMX, we got suss 
When we ride, don't mess with us

Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 
Ride! Ride! Ride! Ride! 

Whoa
Whoa
Whoa
We are the mags!