Stopping the news right now. Surveillance cameras captured a terrifying attack at a store in Vallejo.Riding through the turf on a magazine. You know I stay strapped with a magazine.Put it to your face, like a magazine. I stay on the case, cause I'm from magazine.Nigga, I'm from Hillside, Hillside, Hillside, Hillside, H-I-L-L-S-I-V-E.H-I-L-L-S-I-V-E, M-A-G-A-Z-I-N-E.Vallejo, California, my city, no pity. For a sucker can't be no sissy.Motherfuckers smoke weed like a hippie. Get tipsy like winos, stay whiskey.Country ass city boys with hunting rifles bring no pity.Ruckus, Beverly Hillbilly, big ol' cornfield motherfuckers.What you need, my nigga? Got every narcotic in the world for sale.I ain't Wayne Brady, but let's make a deal.Like Drew Carey, make the prices ride. I got pills, trees, and that white, white, white.The Hillside, half money, half heart. Just like the Watts Tower, we got the kiddie walk.That's the hood landmark, like John Davidson Park.Cutlers, Oldsmobiles, Stangs, Cougars, and Larks.Posted with thugs, ginormous oversized guns. Me and my partners, my brothers, and my cousins.Riding through the turf on a magazine. You know I stay strapped with a magazine.Put it to your face like a magazine. I stay on the case, cause I'm from magazine.Nigga, I'm from Hillside, Hillside, Hillside.H-I-L-L-S-I-N-G-A.Nigga, I'm from Hillside, Hillside, Hillside.H-I-L-L-S-I-N-G-A.When I was a young cub, a lion though, a young cat, baby buffalo.Money and muscle, born in a struggle, turf wars, not tug of war.Shootouts, high space, on top of the roof and trees.On the side of the house with gauges, rifles and .223s.Back then it used to be pagers, not Wi-Fi and 4G.When I was 17, me and my crew went half on a king.Now I'm making more in a day than my momma making a ween.Jewelry, clothes, new shoes on my feet.Having my cabins, hella slap and lap.It's truck full of robbers, tweeters, and horns.Doing they *** job.Getting them up, throwing them.Bobbing and weaving, beasting.Knuckling up with OGs in the middle of the street.Earning my stocks in medals, no bronze or silver, just gold.Peacocks in the summer, even when it ain't cold.I throw my H in the sky, everywhere I go nationwide.If they ask you where I'm from, tell them Hillside.Riding through the turf, on magazine.You know I stay strapped, with a magazine.Put it to your face, like a magazine.I stay on the case, cause I'm from magazine.Nigga, I'm from Hillside, Hillside, Hillside.H-I-L-L-S-I-D.Nigga, I'm from Hillside, Hillside, Hillside.H-I-L-L-S-I-D.Alhambra, Beverly Drive, La Brea.Laurel Street, Cornell.Dayton Court, Wilshire.Hollywood Ave, Fulton.Magazine Street, Brolin.Helping my cash, yoking.Punching the gas, smoking.Brock up his ass, parking my car in the grass.Feeling good, sitting on top of the hood.Flee flicking and serving Knox.Pushing backs, giving them love, jugs.24-hour shift and gritting.Every day, all day, 7-Eleven.Turf burrito, living warmed up in a microwave.Hillside for life.Always been about my bread.Look up to Al or Rick Young.Touche, June Jr. and OG Ned.John John and Robert Gregg.Victor Cook and Tyrone and Emple Smith and Lonnie Smirk.Jimmy Blackman and all of them.See this spot right here?This used to be Mr. Jimmy's.Well, I give a wine or a dollar to buy a beer for me.Around the corner from the Travelodge and Mickey D.You liable to find me at the Kidwig Bowling Alley.Riding through the turf on magazine.You know I stay strapped with a magazine.Put it to your face like a magazine.I stay on the case because I'm from magazine.Nigga, I'm from Hillside.H-I-L-L-S-I.Nigga, I'm from Hillside.H-I-L-L-S-I.H-I-L-L-S-I.