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
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 ride
Going up to 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-oh-oh
Whoa-oh-oh
Whoa-oh-oh
We are the mags!
