spm – lobo wanna raise lyrics
south park mexican:
uh, uhh pick up my voice a little bit
just a little man, just a little bit man, yo just a little bit dog, just a little bit, yeah
flippin’ ex-hoe trippin’… oh sh-t.
flippin’ ex-hoe trippin’
got them new kicks from that boy scotty pippin’
still waitin’ livin’ skin off the chicken
& you hoes already know what i’m sippin’
still a big dipper’
still a straight killer’
still unloadin’ off that 18 wheeler’
n-body better’ never ever ever
gl-ss on my ‘lac like that girl cindereller
hand on my ‘retter
surf on the netter
lookin’ for a shredder in a polo sweater
beat gets settled
straight from the ghetto
say you comin’ back homeboy i keep espedo
hillwood tx, not many mexican’s
‘cept the one that got them 2600 engines
don’t ask questions, don’t give answers
sittin’ at the bar cause i’m not a good dancer
it’s the day after, pray for me pastor
mix a little purple with the strawberry shaster
or the cream soda
rollin’ in the cobra
m-th-f-ckin’ thug born the 5th of october
servin’ that c-ka
it’s la vida loca
catch her at the club i’m a slap her then choke her
still a baller haulin’ bought & i shot it
call it what you call it, more brown bags than sonic
man i’m abra cadabra
struggler not a straggler
bubbler not a babbler
hustler not a hastler
never been a bachelor
always been married
to these f-ckin’ streets
stayin’ long ’til i’m buried
now i’m a sw-ng, i’m a swerve
i think i’m seein’ blurrs
wit my boy serge in the trunk watchin’ spurs
wit my persian princess
on 22 inches
when i sleep she say that my trigger finger twitches
i’m superst-tious & i believe in ghosts
so many hoes wanna be with the ‘los
i’m tweakin’ on the m-th-f-ckin’ weed that i smoke
goin’ 95 on my m-th-f-ckin’ boat
ridin’ them waves
chunkin’ up my tres
lobo call me up talkin’ ’bout he want a raise
crime show pays
don’t do braids, keep a low cut like that boy norman bates
rattles & it shakes, jumps & it brakes
white candy paint look like the pearly gates
sellin’ my tapes in 50 different states
f-ck the radio cause you m-th-f-ckers hate
but it’s all good, i’m from a small hood
tie his b-tch -ss up & bring him back to hillwood
in my levi’s sag down to my lugs
with a t-shirt that say “breeders not drugs”
be one of us, live in the rush
just put diamonds on my baby’s hairbrush
i f-ck with the plus & not the minus
& i might just let my black 9 bust
& it goes like…
chorus: uchei:
uhh ya’ll ain’t ready for this
nuh-uh ya’ll ain’t ready for this
uh ya’ll ain’t ready for this, come on, you no ready for this.
south park mexican:
i tightin’ up my laces on my brand new stacy’s
hug & kiss my babies then call up my crazy’s
tryin’ to make it through another day no easy
m-th-f-ckers hate cause i’m on top like zz
young n-gg-s think we out here playin’ f-ckin’ games
’til one n-gg-s lookin’ at the other n-gg-s brains
laughed & you giggled about the words that i riddled
now we step in the coffin’ rock hard & d-ck shriveled
hoppin’ along in my ’54 bomb
yes i hate pigs like them boys of islam
gone in the wind, not long ’til the end
no more talk with my glock in the palm of my hand
alize at the mandolay
got a call they shot 2 the rest ran away
that’s how the sh-t gets doney in the deep south
i’m in vegas watchin’ vargas knock a b-tch out
ice glisten ballitician hold it down & dirty
peace to all my f-ckin’ raza up in alberquerque
sign a bonus with the yerky now my house is roomy
n-gg-s wanna do me but you b-tches nothin’ to me
understand my killers love makin’ haters bl–dy
actin’ buddy buddy softer than silly putty
hang by a rope & gut ’em like you do a goat
& on his neck write this on a f-ckin’ note
b-tch p-ssin’ in the wind what began has begun
blast my heat once sweep ’em up then be done
i’m one in a catrillion, m-th-f-ckin’ million
layin’ in my bed gettin’ head from a brazilian
mama still b-tchin
gangsta’s still listen
i’m blowin’ weed with them boys from new edition
man i’m ballin’
never ever fallin’
skip to my lou my m-th-f-ckin’ darlin’
& it goes like…
chorus: uchei:
uh ya’ll ain’t ready for this
ya’ll ain’t ready for this
uh ya’ll ain’t ready for this
nuh-uh ya’ll ain’t ready for this, listen.
uchei:
so if you see ’em see ’em, go head tell ’em tell ’em
only music is my dope & i sell ’em sell ’em
or i slang ’em slang ’em
it don’t matter what you call it
my sh-t so hot up in the hood you better record it
now some of ya’ll n-gg-s think my heart is so warm
cold m-th-f-cker me, you don’t want none m-th-f-cker
have your whole crew ducka ducka
it happens when i pull out my 9 milla placa
n-gg- whatcha be careful cause my blood gets hotter
chunk that bullet out my gun than stopper
remember when i used to be a mic wrecker
by the grace of yahweh i come to be the mic checker
now it’s better, now that i’m makin’ that chedder
my belly stay full & my throat was never wetter
of rebecca, meet me at the back stage letter
cause when i go down there’ we’re gonna go down to jamaica.
that’s what i’m talkin’ about
see ya later
uh ya’ll ain’t ready for this.
that was kinda tight wasn’t it? “yeah”
alright.
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