South Park - Land of the Lost 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 'cause deep in his heart he knows that God is real Mama still tries, to open his eyes 'cause the way a man lives is the way a man dies His father's doing twenty-five to life 'cause the love of money cuts like a knife Blinding lights, he doesn't know which way to go His best friend just got k**ed 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 selling wholesale just like his pop taught him Rock bottom, a muthaf**in' 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 Circumstances that led to last dances It was a cold murder, he made sure that he really hurt her Over dumb sh**, but he had to take it further She hit the canvas, now she at Saint Frances Six o' clock services, feel the nervousness Of having to look at d**h perfectless I'm smoking roaches burning the sh** out my fingers Remembering the words of the Church choir singers Chorus Third Verse (SPM): Another Mexican g**ner A trigger happy ditch digger Set tripper, wig splitter Itchy finger quick to blast upon a rival Vida loca, another word for suicidal Same color of skin, but different color rags Browns putting browns up in body bags Every two or three streets is a different clique They got no love for themselves so they living sick For centuries we been filling penitentaries It's plain to see, we're our worst enemy The smartest, most talented of the raza Is all dead or doing time for a f**in' Tronza Geniuses, all dying meaningless 'cause they can't find a way to break free from this Needless to say, the gangsta that I speak of G-Love, is laying in a grave that he dug Chorus (2x