The streets have feelings for nobody.
They’re just a surface on which we walk,
a slang death to the next fiend,
a surface on which a body lays
when a body falls.
They don’t care about your tears
flowing down your cheeks like Niagra Falls.
Now the streets are kind to some
but not kind to most.
They have stop signs atop posts.
But what are they really stopping?
Bodies still dropping,
that crack rocket still shooting
fiends to their dreams
with that mystical white cream.
These streets are not a game,
nor are they a dream.
They’re my reality
and if I keep living this life,
they will lead to my fatality.
But in all actuality
the streets are not for me no more.
I don’t adore
making fast money anymore,
‘cause once it slows down,
ain’t no going up,
just your life crumbling down.