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 But I got a feeling there's gonna be a fight Wrap it up, pack 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 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 We are the mags