Remember The Times?

Beating the block up with basketballs, cops staring at us
Trying to find a flaw, or some law to lash at us
Driving away and later at night, finding us and calling us little bastards
Playing with our minds with red dots, squeezing their trigger fingers at us
We weren't THAT sorry, poor black kids
Always found a way to make funds, some called it dope boy magic
Then again we never saved it
Always found better ways to spend the white faces, played rules by the basics
With society looking down on us, and the devil looking up
We always had to walk with a slight strut in our steps
Just so they couldn't exactly see which way our lives would be turning to next
We always kept that in the circle or within our own selves
Always coming of age, discovered writing as a secret passion
Sharing it amongst the most understandable, perfecting the fashion
Writing in codes that only we understood
Writing in ways that were optimistic, maybe this could make the future good!
Maybe see us do things legitimate, stop being such tyrants
Begin to live like each day were our last, no more affiliated gang violence
Walking down the sidewalks bragging to each other on who is the livest
Watching the younger kids breaking and playing with the fire hydrants
Then being humbled when the circle got smaller, give Janae a moment of silence!

. . .

Then beginning again, with the thoughts that could've been us in those white lines
Stopping the sell of white lines, with weed on my mind; I still remember the times