Latin Throne

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