| Stop at the store make my bitch pump the gas
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| And when we get home bitch you fitting to cut my grass
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| In my cutlass, 1982
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| My baby mama tell me Los I ain’t afraid of you
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| Fuck your threats, 15 percent of all my scrilla
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| Man that’s the mother of my children I can’t kill her
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| So I break bread and proceed to get head
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| From a blonde bitch but her pussy hair red
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| Strawberry patch got my back scratched up
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| These other niggas rapping but they can’t catch up
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| I’m blessed by the lord, Trinity keybord
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| Peace to Filero representng Freeport
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| I’ma rock the casper, cold as Alaska
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| I’m sipping on a twoza and a twelve ounce shasta
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| Docha Cabanna on my Nana Republic
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| I keep my shit rugged cause the real niggas love it
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| What’s the rock cooking, nah I’m cooking rock
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| Got my bitch working at the butt naked spot
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| I’ma bunny hop my new drop out the shop
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| Peace to Big Chief from the what, Rap-A-Lot
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| I’ma hogging dog while I creep in the fog
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| Pull out my dick and tell my bitch I need a job
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| If you want service, I’m at 1−800-Murders
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| Flipping chickens while you niggas flipping cheeseburgers
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| I’m sipping on Durbas, wetter than some surfers
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| Clown them so bad I should join the fucking circus
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| Snatching hoes purses, hope my luck reverses
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| I’ma take the two piece with the biscuit from Churches
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| No way the churches could ever clean my paper
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| Tell my mom I love her, tell my dad I don’t hate you
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| Story Carlos Coy essay vato see I’m loco
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| Seventeen ki’s and started off with one ocho
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| We kick in doors, we robbing stores
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| Creep 64's, welcome to gangsta life
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| Packing beams, destroying dreams
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| Sag dickie jeans, we make them see the light
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| In studios, with mafios, fuck jazzy hoes
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| It just don’t ever stop, so industry, prepare for me
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| That double C, my nuts is all I got
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| I walk in the club niggas stare at me
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| Bitch you got something you want to share with me
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| Can’t we just all live mare-ly
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| Motherfuckers just wishing they could burry me
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| I pull my quete, mom say I’m just like my Jeffe
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| Creeping my carrucha, banging screw
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| Throw up a effe soy el S P M, for my gente
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| They want me on the billboard to say got leche
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| Remember me from Reveille, X bitch was bare-ly
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| Everytime a nigga got shot cops questioned me
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| Teenage murderer, gat named Ursla
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| Chunked her and the baker she the bitch they searching for
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| Rolling out the hood, I came from the impossible
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| Up a long gonna make it to a Conoco
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| And if I did, what makes you think I’d have the dough
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| Hollering like that, is making me unstoppable
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| I’ma drop a fool and let him feel these things
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| Ghetto vero pack a fero show you who I am
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| I’ma make a change, didn’t show the game
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| Want to know my name, and you heard of me
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| I don’t love a bitch, and motherfuck a ho
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| Work at Stop-&-Go, cool like an eskimo
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| Down to shovels, no, and blizzard blind the game
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| No more dying, this pusher just can’t be in vein
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| I’ma see it, believe it we gone beat this man
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| In the streets of game, this shit can’t stay the same
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| Steadily praying man, this hito spread the wealth
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| Be sell wanito, dope is gonna sell itself
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| (South Park Mexican talking)
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| That’s all I got in this, dirty, dirty fucking game
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| Uh, slanging cocaine, uh, and pack my little thang, uh
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| I got a nice aim, uh, it’s about money, fuck fame
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| It ain’t no shame, I’ma come down sun or rain
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| S.P. motherfucking mexicano, actin bad one throwed vato
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| From H-Town to Colorado, uh, that’s my mato
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| I rock hoes, I rock shows, I pop foes, what’s the deal
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| We in this bitch freestyling (laughs) |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Red Beams and Rice, artist - SPM. Album song Best of the Best, Vol. 3, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп