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 w/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.
Maybe we can celebrate with some skittles and Arizona watermelon juice.