East Side Mags

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 hour's 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 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 ride Going up to 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