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 hours 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

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 a ride

Going out 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!

Whoa

Whoa

Whoa

We are the mags!