Hoodies high, ranks closed
The homies march with pants slung low.
Comrades shot by the white hispanics
march in spirit with us in our ranks.
The street free for the brown battalions,
The street free for the grievance lords.
Millions, full of dope, look up at the skittles;
The day breaks for freedom and for skittles.
For the last time the lean will now be drunk;
For the struggle now we all stand ready.
Soon will fly Trayvon-flags over every street;
Old School will last only a short time longer.
Hoodies high, ranks closed,
The homies march with pants slung low.
Comrades shot by the white hispanics
march in spirit with us in our ranks.
It’s sung to the tune of a catchy little German ditty from the 30’s. ;)
Trayvon wears his gold grill like a crown,
Call his child Skittles, cause he likes the name,
Suspended from the finest school in town.
Trayvon, Trayvon like his money,
makes alot they say.
Spends his days dealing, by the playground way.
He was born a bastard to a ho,
6 weeks past Christmas day.
When the New Tork Times says Clintons great,
Tracy Martin had a son today.
And he shall be Trayvon,
And he shall be a hood man.
And he shall be Trayvon,
in tradition with the family plan.
And he shall be Trayvon,
And he shall be a hood man.
......he shall be Trayvon.
Trayvon, steals womens jewelry all day,
His family business thrives.
Skittles blows up balloons all day,
Sits on the porch watching them fly.
And Skittles, wants to go to Venus,
and leave Trayvon far behind.
Take a balloon and go sailing,
while Trayvon, Trayvon slowly dies.
And he shall be Trayvon,
And he shall be a hood man.
And he shall be Trayvon,
in tradition with the family plan.
And he shall be Trayvon,
And he shall be a hood man.
......heeee shaaaall beeee TraaaaayyyyVVVVVVooooooonn.
Excellent! Here. Let me try.
Trayvon be dead.
End of ballad.
LOL