Show Lyrics

T-Bone - The Last Street Preacher
(from the album The Last Street Preacha)
© copyright 2001

Verse 1
My lyrics phat like Don Cartagina, you never seen a Latino Rapper pick up tha mic and eat MCs like helatina, from tha Bay area down to Argentina, I be slangin’ these lyrics in tha crack houses like it was cocaine, mira mija la firme Linya de rap familia, no son Gallinas, killin’ demons is a mistamina, so we ain’t scared of y’all, we lived above tha law, now we got pimps, addicts, thugs and these gustlers at tha altar call, praying saying things like forgive me for my evil ways then, get off they knees and be delivered from 12 years of blazing, praising tha Name of Christ, ain’t scared to give to give my life away, for tha One who died on tha cross and saved me when my life was triff, now it’s alright, God wrote these lyrics peep the copyright, building an army in a world that’s dark so we can bring tha light, raising veteranos Christianos that we call Hermanos, deadly like rattle snakes but worse when mics are in our manos, en mi cara no dicen nada, puro Amenasadas, wack envoyous rappers wann bite like thousand piranhas, I bring tha heat like a sauna filled wit Cubana mammas from Havana, oye como va, whe I rock like Satana.

Verse 2
I stay humble and meek, get on my knees and wash my brethren’s feet, you quick to speak and judge, I’m quick to turn tha other cheek, forgive my foes 479x’s then add 11, just to equal 70x7, Rap Reverend, preachin’ sermons to those thug living, killing, sinning, feeling that they could never be forgiven, ghetto prison is where they living so I make isistions, cut to the heart, then operate, tell ‘em tha sons Arizona if you ain’t getting’ what I be spittin’, get me grab weapon, sawed off K.J.V., wit 66 clips that are made for hitting, straight to tha heart for we wrestle not against flesh and blook, saved thug, blastin’ patnas wit God’s love, pump, pump, you get struck, when I dump, wit tha pump sawed off, tha old man gets hauled off, and that preaching at its best, from tha Westside, do or die, preachin’ Christ crucified.

Hook
One of tha las street preachas left, poet assassin, (what) scarface in tha flesh, straight out tha West, where they ride on they enemies, striptease, pour out liquor for tha diseased and jack for car keys.

Verse 3
What up mamma, it’s tha Rap Papa, Don Dadda, tha one who used to smoke grama, from Nicaragua, sip champana in tha sauna hollering Hey Caramba, now I’m tha redeemed hoodlum telling ‘em Cristo to ama, I’m a bring tha drama, like Tony Montana, cuz when demons step to me they get cut worse than shrimp at BenniHannas, back in tha day we’ed hit weed and smoke roaches, but we ain’t no playas, tell ‘em why, we some coaches, I get ferocious, then I bury all you cochroaches, gt bent off tha Holy Ghost and take it by tha doses, Bibles in my holsters, seen me on tha poster, devil outlined in tha chalk, I walk tha walk and talk tha talk, Jehovah knows this, being a Christians on a day 2 day, forget tha halfway, can’t havler praise tha Lord, then smoke and sip tha alizay, or tangaree, or you’ll get blown up like a hand granade, I ain’t afraid, I slit the devils throat wit my switchblade.