Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Dope Game, artist - South Park Mexican. Date of issue: 14.08.2000
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Dope Game |
| Check one, check two, lets take a cruise |
| I done did the game every which way but lose |
| Nothing left to do except collect my cash |
| And I bet that ass that the Mex gon' last |
| Put the past on paper, threw away my pager |
| Cuz these boys keep callin for 'Los the cookie baker |
| Mama saved em from the hate, now I’m hard with the pain |
| I’m in the place in your face tryin to sell you a tape |
| I break records in Texas creepin in Caddies and Benzes |
| And a pretender if he step up to the bullet bartender |
| I bet I check and wreck a sucker riding bumper to bumper |
| I might dump the whole clip and miss and hit your uncle |
| I ain’t trippin, flippin, sippin on purple Lipton |
| Diggin women in the drop lemon, g livin |
| I was driven to my last nerve, hittin curbs |
| Puttin twenties on a grass hurst |
| End of verse |
| No shame |
| Welcome to the dope game |
| This is were we don’t play |
| Leave your boys with no brains |
| Whoridas |
| I remember long ago I never got no love |
| Still I knew that one day I’d be popular |
| I used to stand in the circle trying to smoke your bud |
| Just hopin that the blunt wouldn’t pass me up |
| I used to ask for a sip of your syrup |
| I used to never walk around with the white cup |
| Now I eat eighteen steaks, on silver plates |
| Girls fanin my face, others give me grapes |
| By the grace of God, I was given the job |
| To run through the rap game like corn on the cob |
| So blessed in my test, I bought my sets in the southwest |
| I ain’t got no credit cards except Mexican Express |
| I’mma dress my baby girl and rock the whole damn world |
| If you needs tracks Happy P got my referal |
| Your head twirl to the sounds of the SP Mex |
| Ridin in the Lex with a dog named Plex |
| Southside to the north, at the old golf course |
| They valeted the white Porsche with the bulletproof doors |
| It’s the L-O-S C-O-Y |
| Pack the pistola, oh me oh my |
| My nina shine like the sun, I never ask for a crumb |
| For breakfast my chef makes me eggs-fuyon |
| I’ve come from the hills of ghetto thrills and chills |
| Three wheelin, dope dealin, killin nothin but squeels |
| My third wish was to break this curse and myth |
| Now I’m worldwide status on your satilite dish |
| Punk checker, chump wrecker, got the salt and the pepper |
| Left a mark in the game and never been a half stepper |
| Leopard skin on my couch, be like Oscar the Grouch |
| From the streets, pullin rocks out my kangaroo pouch |
| But I told these boys, never at my house |
| Whether it’s the ounce that puts leather on my couch |
| A thousand dollars a week, my baby girl’s allowance |
| Dope House bouncin cash to my foreign accounts |