The Game - Chevy Ridin High (Remix) lyrics

[DJ Khaled] Give it to DJ Khaled for doing it [?], big dog, Pitbull, Terror Squadian AKA the Beat Novacane! REMIX! REMIX! REMIX! Listennn! Dre! (This Is, This Is) Pusha! (This Is, This Is, This Is) The Game! (This Is, This Is, This Is) Fat Joe! (This Is, This Is, This Is) Rick Ross! Listennn! [Verse 1: Pusha] If he claims king and he claim best, then I guess you can call me God There's none higher, none flyer The kingpin is back, Louis Vuitton frames hide the face of the supplier Peek-a-boo take a look at what these kilos do Air-condition the Jacob watch is Freon blue A hundred thousand it should come with some mileage too Give me the option to get it serviced at Jiffy Lube 3 years gone, feds tapping the phone Rappers downloading my style, I'm feeling like a ringtone Yuck, the hiatus tried to mini-me me Triple beams to BAPE jeans they'll never be me Re-up gang known as the kilo shoppers Ridin' Chevys give us room to reload choppers Gourmet beef serving n***as Fillet Oscar So many b**hes screaming we should promote operas [Verse 2: The Game] Chevy ridin' high boy, look at the hot wheels If you hotheaded, we gonna pop steel And when I pop the trunk you see a lotta pumps I'll make the a** bounce like a b**h in some Prada pumps I drive 6 tre's, 6 Fo's, the wheels 6 Fo's, watch that a** get low And I'm the rapping a**a**in, ask Rick Ross Ganstas don't dance we make the car do the Laffy Taffy I ain't Yung Joc, but I got a motor bike And I gotta ho I like she like to do the motor bike I'm from Murdaville, and I rep the Dodgers Throwing white bars out that 6 Fo Impala [Verse 3: Dre] No it's not the doctor, but it's still D.R.E Trying to move them units like the Chronic did in '93 On that 95 doing 95, let four of them things go for like 95 Black Dickie set, black Chevrolet Impala Trunk full of that black market pack product Game hit me told me black wall street pop ya colla' Pusha T, I got your back n***a I'm a holla They trying to JFK ya boy, No! The media and paper's trying 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 Bumpin the gangsta music Chevy, Chevy ridin' high boy, Chevy ridin' high boy, Chevy ridin' high Bumpin the gangsta music [Verse 4: Fat Joe] Throw your money in the air n***as, put ya sets up If you ready to ride and down to wet something Its c**a 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 Catching up with old friends is like speaking to the mic And I ain't mister innocent, but something ain't 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 sitting on mills Then you f** the game up with them Puerto Rico grills [Verse 5: Rick Ross] My gun shot whips squat Ridin' on them air shocks Ice cream got the car painted like a blow pop, Ross No top, just guts in the gla** house Ten blocks, no cut in my last house Pull the pots watch out I'm a chef It's Ricky Ross, I'm the boss and the f**ing best I'ma burn rubba (rubba) I'ma burn cheese (cheese) I'ma burn yeese, boy I'm trying to earn these [Verse 6: Dirt Bag] I'm on that reefer and liquor When on the block gotta pitcher The public see me in my Chevy got a star, they want pictures We ridin [?] and vogues 30's and lows Now its 26 b**h's throwing up doors [?] call me styles and Latino's call me sucio Chevy ridin' high like you seen a U.F.O Haters be creeping cuz all that work I be leaping Now and laters be leaking, elevators can't reach 'em, baby [Chorus]