With a Biggy Smalls literary philosophy
And a Tupac Shakur immortal imagery
Rude Boy life is a harsh reality
An enumeration of the living in a colour-clad prophecy
Where guns talk more than tongues of dope
Sniffed blood instead of mounds of coke
That space where the first matters more than the last breath
A place that time has ceased and love is ruled by death
Manhood and respect is bled from the gun
Liquated valour injected by comforting needles
But hid from the sun
Hid at times where the life owned is at threat
Otherwise, that which is marked gets greet by the blade or the bullet
That unwanted realism lavishly decorated on mammonists
Perpetuated by high-profile idealism
Conjured with pomp by trigger-happy hands and sensationalists
An actuality we utterly despise
Yet harbour when it hits close to home then close our eyes
That prospect of progress and success which consumes the young
Builds hope, imbues faith, then murders through mental transudation
It burns to fumes that siege the surrounding air of consideration
Then suffocates dreams and aspires to intellectual constipation
Rude Boy Reality sieves through our calamitous truth
That which maims, victimizes and kills the youth
An era void of desired choice opportunities
But offers sinister limitless possibilities
A reality we fuel day and night as time goes by
One which may never part
As long as there remains a day to die
That reality where weeping mothers still sit to cry
One which does all, but lie
