Ey homeboy, we don't play
(San Diego to L.A.)
In the Fleetwood Cadillacs
Chevy Impalas and shit, you know
(San Diego to L.A.)
Low-Riding
See that's what we do, homes
You know what I'm talkin' about? Check this out
Beautiful hynas, rucas, Low-Rider carruchas
Juras are hot so gots to keep trucha
Just somethin' that stuck with me
Ever since they used to fuck with me
It changed a little, luckily
Ey, I'm still down
And homes it's for the brown
Even though I still got pride in my town
Homies come around
Drinkin' cheves on my driveway
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
Whenever's clevers
Down for whatever
As long as the weather's cool
Drink a 12-pack or Two
Till somebody acts a fool
They don't have to go home
But they know what to do
We scrape 6-3's and we drag 6-2's
Got my '49 and I got my Caddy too
My life is good and it's bad
Has it's ups and it's downs, I'm just glad
I'm still around to tell my stories, man
Ey, homeboy we don't play
(We don't play, we don't play)
Scrape that bumper
As we lay In a '49 Chevrolet or Six-Trey
(There's no way, from San Diego to L.A. we lay)
In the Fleetwood Cadillacs
(That's right)
That battery sits in a gold rack
Side to side, front and back
With switches that bump alot
(Fingerz, let me fuck this up dawg)
No disrespect intended, homes
Been many places
Seen many faces
But there's no place like home
That's where I roll my Dayton's, 13-inch chrome
Hit the switch, front and back
Then I get gone, get ghost
This is the West Coast, Southern Califas
Right next to Tijuas
Latin crazed, draggin' shades
Draggin' my back bumper all over the place
Chispas from the frame when it's grazed
California's what it says on the plates
Double painted in candy
We'll do some flakes in the plane
So fuckin' bright you have to cover your eyes
Just like that primo tryin' to cover his lies
My hyna gets all mad 'cause it's the love of my life
I'm Lil Rob and I'll Low-Ride till I die
You wanna know why?
Because I love to get high
And it's like smokin' an ounce
Every time that I... (bounce)
Ey, homeboy we don't play
(We don't play, we don't play)
Scrape that bumper
As we lay In a '49 Chevrolet
Or Six-Trey
(There's no way, from San Diego to L.A. we lay)
In the Fleetwood Cadillacs
(That's right)
That battery sits in a gold rack
Side to side, front and back
(Fingerz, let me fuck this shit up dawg)
Ey homeboy, we don't play
Scrapin' back bumper as we lay
In a 1949 Chevrolet or my Six-Trey
Or the Fleetwood Cadillacs
Them batteries on the racks
That switch is sittin' on my lap
Smiling faces they sometimes lie
But I make people smile every time that I drive by
Little kids give other kids high fives
And hope to someday to have a ride like mine
And that's cool
A whole new Low-Riding generation
Bouncing, candy flaking, pancaking and scraping
Street raking, shaking till something's breaking
Hittin', like everything written in Nana's kitchen
No fiction
Fucking up my jurisdiction
Juras tripping 'cause I'm switch flippin'
And grinnin'
Loving how I'm livin', just chillin'
Looking hella mean in my 1218's
Ey, homeboy we don't play
(We don't play, we don't play)
Scrape that bumper
As we lay In a '49 Chevrolet or Six-Trey
(There's no way, from San Diego to L.A. we lay)
In the Fleetwood Cadillacs
(That's right)
That battery sits in a gold rack
Side to side, front and back
With switches that bump alot
(Fingerz, let me fuck this up dawg)
You know how we do it dawg
From San Diego to L.A
