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Viewing Lyrics for Land of the Lost:
| | | Artist: | South Park Mexican |
| | Album: | The 3rd Wish | | Track: | Land of the Lost | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 1 | | | | Lyrics: | f/ Marilyn Rylander
First Verse (SPM):
He was the son of a dope man, what
he saw was what he learned
He left school, now it's finally his turn
To rob and steal, but
he feels he needs to stop and chill
Cuz deep in his heart he knows that God is real
Mama
still tries, to open his eyes
Cuz the way a man lives is the way a man dies
His father's
doin' twenty-five to life
Cuz the love of money cuts like a knife
Blinding lights, he
doesn't know which way to go
His best friend just got killed two days ago
He writes his
Dad the first letter that he ever wrote
A little note, about how bad his heart was
broke
Before the mail, could even reach his jail cell
The boy was murdered at a
neighborhood hotel
Sellin' wholesale, just like his pop taught him
Rock bottom, a
muthafuckin' cop shot him
Chorus (Marilyn Rylander):
We always
will....
Remember you...
We always will...
Have love for you...
A taste of
life....
And now your gone...
You found a life....
In the Land of the
Lost....
Second Verse (SPM):
They met when they was teenagers, around the
tenth grade
She fell in love, and now he wants to get paid
He convinced her to work at the
buck naked
And everything she made dancing he would take it
She got a fake I.D., and a
club license
A second life, that she had to live in silence
At seventeen, she got the
strength to finally leave him
That's when she met the demon
It was a cold murder, he made
sure that he really hurt her
Over dumb shit, but he had to take it further
Circumstances
that led to last dances
She hit the canvas, now she at Saint Frances
Six o' clock
services, feel the nervousness
Of having to look at death perfectless
I'm smokin' roaches
burnin' the shit out my fingers
Rememberin' the words of the Church choir
singers
Chorus
Third Verse (SPM):
Another Mexican
gangbanger
Set tripper, wig splitter
A trigger happy ditch digger
Itchy finger quick
to blast upon a rival
Vida loca, another word for suicidal
Same color of skin, but
different color rags
Browns puttin' browns up in body bags
Every two or three streets is a
different clique
They got no love for themselves so they livin' sick
For centuries we been
fillin' penitentaries
It's plain to see, we're our worst enemy
The smartest, most talented
of the raza
Is all dead or doin' time for a fuckin' Tronza
Geniuses, all dyin'
meaningless
Cuz they can't find a way to break free from this
Needless to say, the gangsta
that I speak of
G-Love, is layin' in a grave that he dug
Chorus (2x | | | |
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