A Gangster true calling is the streets of his own hood.

The lampposts that separate territory,

     A True Gangster calling is the gangs he roams.

Every Chip cost a dime in his time

      While a soda costed 25

 

The movement he take stays struck in the wrong direction.
For every force, there is a direction

For every direction, there is force.

 

The more work he does

The more he turns cold.

 

The more work he does

The more he starts to roam

 

The more work he applies

The more the streets become him.

Work is Physics, and without it

The Gangster true calling becomes his calling.

The Citizens look and points as he tries to run and hide,

But All they see a young boy holding a gun in his very hind

His father once told him, don’t stay still - move.

The power of one is in the hands you wield  

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What happen to that boy soon to be man?

He fell hard in the snow in Central Park,

No one helped him, and was left for dead.

What happen to that boy that became man?

The Gang life took him, stacked, sacked him with no helping hand