[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
