Spm Diaries - SPM, Rasheed

Whats the deal man, we back in this camp

I’m doing this right here off the shot of coffee my boy Flaco gave me you heard.

Creasin' my pants as I dance with the devil

I used to ride a bike that only had one pedal

No nike kicks, broke than a bitch

I started comin' up sellin' fat ass nicks

I’mma flip it like a script at the (?)

Thats my lil' spot, 8 by 10 cubic

Nah, I ain’t stupid, never have been

They locked up they (?) now they all laughin'

Celebrating life with they kids and they wife

They wishing I would die as my lil' girl cries

Always knew that these hoes would be coming for me

But my comeback’s gone be something to see

I can’t stand a ho, on a tv show

They say «I'm Hispanic» or «I'm Latino»

Bitch you a Mexican, say that shit

Why the fuck is you acting scared to represent

Everytime the wind blows I reach for my heat

Peace to Sam Boone and my homie Pistol Pete

I’m from the South East but got love for the North

And these are just the diaries that SPM wrote

Mr. SP can you spare a few pages

To write whats on my mind and record a few tapes and

It’s the Rasheed creepin' in my Batman boat

My money tripled like the chin on a fatman throat

But haters could they hate yo voice I was kinda bored

You know I always be that Dope House spinal cord

I just been chillin', showin' boys how to wreck screw tapes

And also how a haters body fits in one suitcase

I told you once, I use you motherfuckers for lunch

I pull more stunts than Knievel, bring it in by the tons

I got guns, I mean I got guns

I heard you had some heat too, but not much

I’m the pusha, run 'em like Alaskan huskies

And still smoke the finest, right by the trust SKS

Bring it to your chest

You should know by know, I don’t aim for the legs

Everybody gather round the fire, blow like a dryer

I’mma run a lil' something by ya

In the battlefield theres nothing like you’ve ever known

Soy el pelon de Houston con fe y corazon

Estereo, es serio, Houston hasta Mexico

Cortalo, vendelo, SPM dejalo

Vato es maton, con su homie Low-G Flores

Juan Gotti bring dolores y casa de millones

Y Fiero, en este juego, necesitas huevos

Mi treinta y ocho, ya no te quiero

Puro AK-47, ya vete

Tu vas pa tras y dile que te respete

Cuando sales tengo jales en muchas partes

Te doy coca y cuetes que son cuates

Como mi ruka, maria juana, no hay otra

Fumando me llamo Rolando Mota

Everytime the wind blows I reach for my heat

And these are just the diaries that SPM wrote

And these are just the diaries that SPM wrote

And these are just the diaries that SPM wrote