war zone

Everyday is a war zone/

Watch the kiddies play with a skull & bones/

Then try to lay you on the ground like a lawn gnome/

Then acquaint you with a sound that’s like the Morse code/

It goes, “Emergency… S.O.S., S.O.S., we in distress!”/

But if the world was a giant phone, the hood gets a dial tone/

& the rich kids play on a xylophone/

& they got triggaz that could drain Godzilla/

And they stay right where the throwin’ hoods up/

& the things got realer when them jurors freed Trayvon’s killa/

So throw yo’ hoods up/

And they say to give someone your trust is suicidal/

‘Cause the one to put you I the dust could be standing right beside you/

Man, these ain’t no Army men/

They hardly men/

& most were recruited when they were hardly boys/

Had to wrestle all their life like the Hardy Boys/

Got neglected as a child like Tamagotchi toys/

The FBI, PD, Navy, Air Force,/

Marine Corps…ain’t ready for/

Street War! 



It’s an everyday struggle to survive/

You’re behind and you’re running out of time/

Minefields exploding in your mind/

..Your mind

Don’t let your spirit get fatigued, you must endure/

Let your trials be a camouflage for war/

Destruction is awaiting at the door

Your cavalry’s the Lord/


Every day is a war zone/

Can’t no pennies pay for the boys gone/

Or the home boys in the boys home/

The stress is heavy weight like Roy Jones/

Hear a mother scream in a harsh tone/

‘Cause she lost her teen and her heart’s torn/

And everybody seen the harm done/

But they never speak, like a horse’s tongue/

Don’t look for zombies in this horror zone/

Hope I’m stating the obvious like a horoscope/

Here it’s hard to find a conscience like their souls were stole’/

This ain’t a tale like Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone/

No stories told of the pain that their minds feel/

Where these shorties stroll is like a minefield/

Gotta watch your step & keep your eyes peeled/

They could be short as trolls with that 9 steel/

You ask them, they better off if a bomb drop/

I’d rather see Jet Li vs. Ong Bak/

Than a loaded semi vs. a cocked glok/

‘Cause nowadays they say you corn if you don’t pop! Pop! Pop!/

They don’t teach ‘em about A Raisin in the Sun/

They’re teaching sons about rasing up a gun!/

But the cameras and managers and analysts/

Can’t handle this!/




Every day is a war zone/

Berets, grenades and Molotovs thrown/

Here crack is king on a tall throne/

And the gat is prince with a long robe/

And these rappers make you think it’s like Hollywood/

But it ain’t nearly near what they taught you/

‘Cause if they had to see this place again they hardly would/

That’s why you rarely hear this on the talk shows/

And please don’t believe: the videos with the pretty girls in the skimpy clothes/

 And the pantyhose with the painted toes as they shake and pose/

Now Miley Cyrus wanna twerk, up there shaking proud/

Smart to keep it in the place with the stage and crowds/

Yeah, just stay around where it’s safe and sound/

‘Cause you bring that to the hood and might not make it out/

And the crack heads’ living quarters get burned down/

& the single mothers get burned out/

And their little daughters get turned out/

And the soundtrack is that trap music, that crack music, that gat music/

But trade that crap for this Black music/

And I’ll tell you how to get from the War Zone/

To the Lord’s home!/