Texty: Dre. The Trunk. Chevy Ridin' High (Remix).

(feat. The Game, Pusha T, Fat Joe, Dirtbag & Rick Ross)

[Verse 1: Pusha]
If he claims king and he claims best then I guess you can call me God
There's none higher, none flyer
The king pin is back, Louis Vaton frames hides the face of the supplier
Peek a boo take a look at what these kilos do
Air-condition the Jacob watch is free on blue
A hundred thousand it should come with some mileage too
Give me the option to get it service to Jiffy Lube
3 years gone feds tapin' the phone
Rappers downloadin' my style I'm feelin' like a ringtone
Yuck, the high attest tryin' to minime me
Triple beams to bake jeans they'll never be me
Re-up gang known as the kilo shoppers
Ridin' Chevy's give us room to reload choppers
Gourmet beef servin' niggas fillet they Oscar
So many bitches screamin' we should promote operas

[Verse 2: The Game]
Chevy ridin' high boy, look at the hot wheels
If you hotheaded we gonna pop still
And when I pop the trunk you see a lota pumps
I'll make the ass bounce like a bitch in some Proda pumps
I drive 6 trays, 6 4's, the real 64's, watch that ass get low
And I'm the rappin' assassin ask Rick Ross
Gansta's don't dance we make the car do the Laffy Taffy
I aint Yung Joc, but I got a motor bike
And I gotta hoe I like she like to do the motor bike
I'm form Murdaville, and I rep the dodges
Throughin' white bars out that 64 Impala

[Verse 3: Dre]
No it's not the doctor, but it's still D.R.E.
Tryin' to move them units like the Chronic did in '93
On that 95 doin' 95, let four of them thangs go for like 95
Black Dickie set, black Chevrolet Impala
Trunk full of that black market pack product
Game hit me told me black wallstreet pop ya colla
Push a tee I got your back nigga I'm a holla
They tryin' to J.F.K. ya boy, No!
The media and paper's tryin' to blame ya boy, No!
But the only thing getting' dropped because of me is the roof on the '7 tre Chevy Caprice

[Chorus:]
Chevy ridin' high boy, Chevy ridin' high boy, Chevy ridin' high,
Off the gangsta music
Chevy, Chevy ridin' high boy, Chevy ridin' high boy, Chevy ridin' high,
Off the gangsta music

[Verse 4: Fat Joe]
Through your money in the air niggas, put ya sets up
If you ready to ride and down to wet somethin'
Its cocka baby, say it with conviction
The A's hate me, I got no convictions
They won't leave me 'til they greet me with life
Catchin' up with old friends is like speakin' to the mic
And I aint mister innocent, but somethin' aint right
When it's five dark skinned in the line-up and I'm light
My life's a movie, ya love to hate me
GT bars, double exhaust baby
It's all bubbles when you sittin' on Mil's
Then you fuck the game up wit them Puerto Rico grills

[Verse 5: Rick Ross]
My gun shot whips squat
Ridin' on dem air shocks
Ice cream got the car painted like a blow pop, Ross
No top just guts in the glass house
Ten blocks no cut in my last house
Pull the pots watch out I'ma chef
It's Ricky Ross I'm the boss in the fuckin' biff
I'ma burn rubba, rubba
I'ma burn cheese, cheese
I'ma burn yeese, boy I'm tryin' to earn these

[Verse 6: Dirt Bag]
I'm on that refer and liquor
When on the block gotta pitcher
The public see me in my Chevy got a star take one picture
With my essentials and vogues
30's and lows
Now its 20 stitches bitch's throughin' up doors
Hoe's call me styles and Latino's call me sucio
Chevy ridin' high like you seen a U.F.O.
Haters be creapin' cuz all that work I be leapin'
Now and laters be leakin', eleavators can't reach 'em, baby

[Chorus: 'til fade]