The Prayer of a Hood

I’m a gangbanger,

A trouble maker,

Livin’ on the streets,

Trying not to get beat.

My life is hard,

But it’s made me tough,

And taught me all the right street stuff.

I don’t need a dad,

A Camaro or ‘Stang.

I’m fine by myself,

All I need is all I own.

This is what I thought,

Before I got shot.

Now I’m lying here,

And no one seems to care.

Now comes the first tear,

Of many years.

I think it’s not fair,

That ‘cause of the holes in my jeans,

And the grease in my hair,

My life had to end.

It’s cruel and mean.

I’m lying here in my own blood,

Thinking of what could have been,

If I’d a dad and mom who cared.

If there was no grease in my hair,

I would not be dying here.

If I lived south of the tracks, you see,

Lying here, I would not be.

But life didn’t quite work out that way.

You called me a hood,

And some said that I’m no good,

And Hinton called me a greaser.

Police called me a nuisance,

Rich kids called me a loser,

And my mom didn’t care

To call me at all.

Some called me sick.

Some called me crazed.

But if they saw me in this daze,

They’d see that I am just a kid.

That, when parents cared, mine never did.

They’d see the boy so scared in side.

They’d see the shame of how I died.

So a gangbanger I’ll be no more,

I’m a casualty of this life war.

And so with my last breath I leave,

A prayer for the hoods and greasers like me,

To take away all the hate,

That all too quickly brought my fate.

Goodbye to all my worries,

And to the bullets and the lies.

The life of a gangbanger,

Came by no choice of me,

And is nothing to despise.