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South Park Mexican The 3rd Wish Latin Throne Thanks to Ltsjet@aol.com for these lyrics. f/ Marilyn Rylander [SPM] Uhh....one time baby, yeah Ain't no stoppin' this movement...gotta roll with it First Verse [SPM]: Land of dum-dum, is where I come from Believe me when I tell you that you don't want none son A long, hard road for this, latin throne You can catch me in the club in the, back alone So, Mama's don't let your babies grow to be gangstas Killas taught to not give a fuck, hit em up with sign language, Reach for the stainless, leave 'em brainless, I'm just explainin' how the game is The strangest of things come to me at no surprise, Fuck pea shooters, all my gats are supersized Utilized all my allies, I run with bad guys, I got seven dopehouses, that's a franchise Man cries if he was blessed with a heart, But I lost mine, in the backstreets of South Park Once again it's Mister SPM, And the shit ain't gonna stop until I'm dead or in the pen Chorus [Marilyn Rylander]: He's a hustler He's a baller He sits on the Latin Throne He's a hustler He's a baller He sits on the Latin Throne Second Verse [SPM]: We shootin' stars, runnin' from cop cars I got scars jumpin' metal gates and sharp bars The hood is ours, save my pennies in a pickle jar Everyday you see me in a different crackhead's car So bizarre how so many bullets miss my head, I told my Mom, that I'm gonna stick with this instead Fuck the crack rock , I rapped and hit the jackpot Now I'm on a plane writin' on my laptop It's all wiggy rockin' city to city But I still feel my past catchin' up with me Got more ends, bought my Mom a Gold Benz, But she worry cuz I still got all my old friends Hopin' that I slow up and change one day, But these Hillwood streets got me raised one way I told my lady one day we gone be like the Brady's But for now I teach her how to use this three eighty Chorus Third Verse [SPM]: Three years and countin', I've been drinkin' from the music fountain The Dopehouse sits in Houston like a fuckin' mountain, Who you doubtin'? This round is comin' out the South I got non-believers with they foot in they mouth I break guinesses, keep 'em off my premises, Used to be menaces, now our dreams limitless Isn't this a trip? Not a slipper or a sleeper, Niggas wantin' dope still hittin' up my beeper But we can overcome the ghetto even G's without a mother, Bread without butter, I came crawlin' out a gutter Born hustler, used to drive an old gas guzzler, Fresh out the hood I was sellin' dope last summer Servin' zombies, a following as big as Gandhi's, Now I'm donkey dickin' Brunettes and Blondies Jammin' Jon B., with bottles of Don P., The day of the Wetback has striked upon thee Chorus |
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