the bouncing souls
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  B-M-X, 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!