It's like a ghetto we can never leave/A broken rose givin bloom to the cracks of the concrete

Father forgive us for livin while all my homies stuck in prison/Barely breatin believin that the world is a prison

So many other things for us to see/Things to be, our history so full of tragedy and misery

So many questions, and they ask me if I'm still down/I moved up out of the ghetto, so I ain't real now?/They got so much to say, but I'm just laughin at cha

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise.

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.

What is true is that I have at times earned my own crust of bread, and at other times a friend has given it to me out of the goodness of his heart. I have live…