Tear stained traces
On solemn faces
From desperate places
On the block
Thugs and G's
Kneeling on one knee
Dice four...dice three
With them pistols cocked
On street corners they hang
Sellin' that thang
Or those pimps will bang
Up on them heads
It's understood
That in the ghetto hood
Their hustle best be good
Or they might be dead
In tiny plastic sacks
Small rocks called 'Crack'
They step way in the back
To take a blast
Dope fiend not sure
If the dope is pure
Might be his cure
Might be his last
Bills must be paid
But they're earning minimum wage
So they live in rage
And resort to crime
As blue lights flash
A father stole that cash
Then he made that dash
But now he's making time
The cement floors
The iron doors
The mosquito sores
On tiny legs
With bellies tight
They will not eat tonight
Perhaps they might
Get out and beg
While jobs decline
The unemployment line
Is doing real fine
And growing stronger
Feels like they've flunked
So they get high...they get drunk
Their faith has sunk
Don't care no longer
The sirens blare
The fires flare
But no one cares
When they come 'round
The can't relate
They won't debate
The ghetto's fate
Won't make a sound
There is no grass
Just broken glass
And painful pasts
Misunderstood
A gun acquired
A shot is fired
Young man dead and expired
Life in the 'Hood"
You have very eloquently and lyrically described life in the hood.
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