"Money is Power, but Power is never letting money overshadow your past" - Kim Giegland
A successful career, respectful, accountin’ for clients…
And my lifestyle must amount to the highest…
A mountain of dimes with, a pile of pennies and bills…
But I can’t get my mind off my town, even though many get killed…
Descending and ill, my mental was beginning to shift…
Everything I looked at was either Spinning or flipped…
A sickening pit I called my room caused me ache and impatience…
And the president of my company told me to take a vacation…
My fam ain’t with me, so damn that city…
But something makes me want to return to it, and the land ain’t pretty…
So I called up an old friend, to see if I could stop off…
And his daughter answered the phone; to tell me he was shot…
Whatever, I wasn’t worried, we hadn’t talked in years…
I was as happy as ever, I didn’t even drop a tear…
I asked to go visit their home as I was sittin’ alone…
I felt I had the perfect life, yet I was missin’ a soul…
So I packed my things in a suitcase with my gat and bling…
Cracked my knucks, even threw in a wooden bat to swing…
Imagine heading back to a home where white chalk is the impression…
A million faces gazing on the sidewalk with no expression…
You condemn me cuz you’ve got a crutch for every toe…
And I don’t have any crutches let alone know where to go…
It’s like a war fought continuous and the sides are getting deeper…
The gang violence forced the crypt keeper to stab the grim reaper…
Waterfalls of steamy slime splash through the curb’s gutter…
And with no freedom of speech to speak out, the word’s stutter…
The metro busses stop for no one, and they run more fucked…
Trains don’t work cuz the conductor’s duct tape the doors shut…
I’d call a cab but someone’s sleepin’ in the phone booth…
And that’s there home too, as they lay covered in boxes…
I’m too scared to move him; I can see a shotgun under his pockets…
There’s a farmer’s harvest unemployment line in the back street…
And a main part of town to view families doin’ crappy…
And where’s the crack been, this whole city’s a freak show…
Where everyone from junkies to losers to the creeps go…
There’s no way out, just hope for dough, and you’ve gotta cope alone…
Cuz there’s no hospital’s here.. Just endless broken homes…
The street’s are filled with the dusty December air…
Nothin’ is where I remember, except violence everywhere…
But the courts stayed put, the sport’s played good…
Ain’t took a shot in a few years.. My forced game should…
Still be alright, but not the NBA image’s self…
The only place this place resembles, is no different from hell…
I’ve got a game goin’ quickly, plain, old and simply…
But I hear among the voices a few know my name with me…
Old friends are no more, just schoolmate’s and addicts…
As I see weapons drawn and I knew its entrapment…
The red’s hit the blue’s, til the blue’s became bloody…
And the red’s didn’t know to help or keep gunning…
And I got mixed up in this all, I don’t know how it happened…
All I saw was a random look at me, and then the clappin’…
But I recognized the face, the guy was straight frontin’…
It was my cousin.. Damn, I knew I forgot something…
My fam was left in this dump, as I kept livin’ lush…
And thought to myself, I was at best just a punk…
eh
