C-Bo - Survival 1st Lyrics

California's the state where punk *****s die.
First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise.
So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes.
It's just some ballin' *** *****s down to die for the West Side.
California's the state where all bustas die.
First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise.
So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes.
It's just some ballin'-*** *****s down to die for the West Side.

It could be the napalm, droppin' non stop bombs,
Armed like vietnam, dominatin' like King Kong.
Lyrical madness, step up, take up, and start blastin'.
Wicked as Stephen King when my mental and vocal clashes.

Syrran wrap, like a boa constrictor, wrappin' ya.
Up from your feet to your neck, *****, attackin' ya.
These 4-5 hollow tips will have you backin' up.
I only do my dirt at night like dracula.

I'm wanted by the feds, these *****s, they want me dead,
'Cause I done spread through their territory like the HIV.
Sun down spots, suckas swallow glocks.
If they know by these rocks I'm pushin' for the blocks.

Every corner you past, that show will run him up in his ***.
Gettin' the cash, while Mr. Bad puts down the smash.
I dumps quick, my clique be so thick,
With hi-tech mob ****, crooked as Soviet.


The house on the water, independent shippin' quarters,
Movin' tapes like K across every border.
Takin' over your brain, causin' addiction like 'caine,
More deadly than a grand shot of Heroine in the vein.

Inflict pain, on any ****** that step in my range.
Retaliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain.
So remain calm, this **** is see-4 bomb,
Set trip off your **********in' city like 'Nam.

Best recognize, step up and check eyes.
Ain't to many busta-*** *****s from the West Side.
I do or die for mine, livin' life like I'm blind.
Solo on a flame line, dumpin' hollow tip 9's.

Survival first, ask questions later.
Movin' patterns on your *****-*** 'cause I heard that you was a hater.
Oh who can save you?
Defeated your purpose, now you caught up in some deep ****.

Who got the deepest murder clique, that's some would sick.
This game is way past wicked. Still I commence to kick it.
West side ******s stackin' meal tickets.
Surpassin' weak *****es, evadin' snitches, and sayin' bomb.
Killafornia style when we ride droppin' bombs.

Palay Palay, Tommy Hilfiger cold, can I?
Polo, Jabo, Guess, Khakis and Levis.
Ballers is what they call us, too much for the ATL.
Lexus, Benz, Beemer, Vet, VIP, 112.

Might catch me at the Platinum, sippin' on some Hen, rolex down,
Ride ST 400 Lex through the town.
Clown, and you'll catch a hot metal tab up to the chest.
Don't make me kill a ***** out east and head West Side.

'Til I die, reason why, I stay high,
To maintain my composure and attitude when I ride.
Don' push me, I'm too close to the edge
Might take one to the head.

[Chorus: x2]

It's the season of the sickness, marks on my shitlist.
Comin' up out the psychadelic bui'ness, don't sit in it.
When I gets to bustin', I let loose like a Mac-10.
I'm born and raised a hustler, got love for my family, **** friends.

Never been disgusted, but I just like love it,
Wit my streetsweeper, put hoes in your bucket.
Man, I just say **** it, I can't live with society.
Now, how many *****s in yo clique want to ride on me?


Track Listing
CD 1
  • 1 Menace
  • 2 3 Gangstas
  • 3 Ridin On My Bumper
  • 4 I Can't See The Light
  • 5 I'm A Fool
  • 6 Livin Like A Hustler Part 2
  • 7 One Life 2 Live
  • 8 Club Hoppin
  • 9 I'm Gonna Get Mine
  • 10 Break'Um Off
  • 11 Kill Em Up
  • 12 Survival 1st

  • Credits
    writers: Shawn Thomas
    album: Track 12 in album One Life 2 Live
    release date: 1997-3-5
    popularity : 43 users have visited this page.
    genres: Hip Hop
    styles: Thug Rap/Gangsta
    length: 4:55
    Album Information
    label: AWOL Records
    country(area): United States
    format: CD
    script: Latin