My mind is haunted, filled with the extension of slaves that's torment Slow down my steps, one foot from the grave to con it Our young black males, they lick pon gate Son of the morning, roasted souls, tell Minister "come pray" It's gun trade inside of smokey apartments Flow process, one nine, two tech, four revolvers !@&@e overballing kettels, it's like we struck oil in the ghetto's We supply it to addict's, the devil work He practice, he's like a search backwards Til they throw that dirt in our casket, and that's it I live where the fiends are nothin', just a scene of the projects, similar to Osama's An old man, at the top of the stairs, he just stare Cuz his mind ain't there, victim of the war Polar signs, the times is near He drop the jewels, til you buy him a beer He said he was a linebacker for the Bears Said he did it all back, while he's dryin' his tear Yeah, it's that real %#@!, that made me That music from the '80's, the child's of the '70's I live long til they bury me...