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Artist: Ice-T f/ DJ Ace, Hot Dolla, Powerlord JEL, Swaggafornia A.K.A. Mr. Wesside
Album:  VI: Return of the Real
Song:   Bouncing Down the Strezeet 
Typed by:

* DJ Ace repeats 'Westside Niggaz' in the Chorus background

[Intro: Ice-T] 
Yeah, Ice-T up in here, boy (Westside Niggaz)
Got my man Hot Dolla in the house, you know what I'm saying? (Westside, you know)
J-E-L, Rhyme Poetic Mafia up in here (Westside Niggaz)
Got Mr. Wesside in the place, you know what I'm saying? (Westside Niggaz)
Straight lace hustlers in the house
Yo Wesside, tell them how you do it, baby
[Verse One: Swaggafornia A.K.A. Mr. Wesside] 
Drinking up my Alpine®
18-inch bolt gauge bumping up jealous niggaz on my mind    
It's my cash, my dollars, my paper    
Just hit the lick, now, suckers wanna pull capers

What you think all my gats is for?
But ain't got no Rottweilers by the door
Bring your ass on in friend, then, counting my currency
Til call you sleep out of the blue twenty
Mac 90s, mind on my money
Still trying to fuck that bitch in Aqua
Out the bally cause I used to love ya
My bunny, is acting, funny, but fuck you bitch
Bouncing on these bitches, like eighteen switches
Side to side, front, three-wheel motion
Sedan De Ville® sliding like lotion
Out of the Central (WHAT?!)
Upping to the hills with my kinfolks

[Chorus: Swaggafornia A.K.A. Mr. Wesside]
Niggaz gonna be bouncing down the Street-zy
To this beat-zy, with the heat-zy, another deize-y
With your dough money, dose money, money rose on your dome
Moving on Chrome, and gold (Ds)

[Verse Two: Hot Dolla]
Nigga, I can't loose, just I ooze up and down these tracks 
Cause the booth has got me feeling like the rat pack 
In the killing to the ceiling with my height, off lights with no direction
From the rep like Comp-town section, a fear from my complexion
A fear from my erection, so they put me in corrections
It's life in effect, the fact I'm trapped in my existence
But even from my thousand yard distance
I'm seeing right through you with that mad dog glance
With that gangster's dance
So we can sag them pants, come take a chance
Would you like to dance in the infra-red drip like?.. (*Gun Shots*)
?? and 100 Spokes and don't make me loke
It's Hots-to-the-Dolla baby, ain't no joke
You plus my bank is poke, so I got to make a statement
I'm on my third strike, I'm rolling on the bike
I'm asking all you niggaz what that Comp-town like?
Before I gots to pull a fire for that N.Y.

[Chorus: Swaggafornia A.K.A. Mr. Wesside]

[Verse Three: Powerlord JEL]
Man, the Ese's rolling shit, I know what's up
I'm cold, heading back streets and ripping gangster cuts
Ohh yes; I floss daily, fuck our represent 
And straight show, keeps my Ds on a hot cement
And.. I'll tell your dealer Cali' ain't no joke
Cause that smog on the West Coast is Indo smoke
So don't slip for a second, and get played like a whore
Ohh, don't make me bust in Pac-sive mode
I enroll mad legal making mass appeal
And you can ask anybody if my clique pack steel
Cause no matter where I flow, brothers pay the cost
And that's why they're gonna tell you that I can't be toast
Man, you didn't know my music, didn't know my skin
But you can win, listen to the the Mexicans
So don't talk about me, cause I'll work you son
But the crazy thing about it, I won't be needing my guns

[Chorus: Swaggafornia A.K.A. Mr. Wesside]

[Verse Four: Ice-T]
Busters can't even see the Ice, as I flex this
You couldn't afford the Benz®, so you had to buy the Lexus®
But how them pillars over fans that I ride on the weekend
Lock me up, watch my custom drive, shaft vans square dumps in my trunk
Lick it once, watch my front end fly, as I skate on by
On them five twenties money, Titanium Scrape Plate 
Rock the ass like you blocked up, Show Nuff
I got the cute trunk, hooked up with four pumps in the middle
Hit your corner looking like a damn tricycle
Hit the pancake, let the butter late on the drown
And get on out the ride and clown
With my homies on the corner in South Central, California
You couldn't get more real if you wanna
I'm gonna let you know that when I froze, just don't trip on gauze
Front seat for my homies, back seat for the whores

[Chorus: Swaggafornia A.K.A. Mr. Wesside]