In the streets where crack lives,
Where dudes hustle to make mathematics
Hustlers challenge each other, duels for cabbage
Fiends in the halls resemble a cactus
Drugs have a become a sport, a practice
Making emotions bounce as if they’re on a mattress
Everybody pushes, from white men to black kids
Italians, even some Asians
Puerto Ricans, Arabic, can’t forget some Haitians
The fiends, trapped in a box, they can’t escape it
The violence is senseless, gotten too crazy
A mother’s “baby”, left for dead just for gravy
But alas, I ask, if so many traffic
Does no one look back and ask what happens?
If Johnny goes home and overdoses on angel dust
Just so little Lisa can shop at Toys ‘R Us
Does it make it any less dangerous, dangerous?
The gallows still reign, still they’re hanging us, hanging us
The shadow of the Reaper looms, with a thirsty blade
Swift choices made just to get paid
Staid, people still defend the darkness of the trade
But how do you condone all the fiends in the grave?
Another thought as the hustler goes to sleep
Gun under the pillow if the Reaper tries to creep