Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Trayvons
Trayvons ain’t easy to love and they’re awful damn dumb.
They’d rather shout rap songs than go to school and learn.
WorldStar HipHop and knockout game videos,
And each arrest begins a new sentence.
If you don’t understand him, an’ he don’t die young,
He’ll prob’ly just OD.
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be Trayvons.
Don’t let ‘em be burglars or drink Purple Drank.
Let ‘em cook fast food and wash cars and such.
Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be Trayvons.
‘Cos they’ll join a gang and they’re always in prison.
Unless they meet up with a man with a gun.
Who knows why you just had to make that lean,
who knows why you became part of the gangsta scene,
who knows who sold you all them blunts,
who understood your whistles and your grunts,
who made you assault the neighborhood watch,
whose jewelry was that you were caught with at school
who made you act the ghetto fool?
Why didn’t your Crip daddy stick around,
whose head on the pavement did you pound,
who had to make a decision that fateful night,
when you left him no escape and picked a fight,
who made the choice to mock and sass,
an armed watchman (you called “creepy ass”),
who could’ve gone home but didn’t there go,
instead walked towards a six foot deep hole.
Very good!