Stay Classy

I'm sick of babymamas,
Prostitutes in disguise.
Many sirens screaming at night,
Gunshots bursting through any meagre silence offered.
I'm sick of police roaming the school
And walking the beat, observing the street.
People in poverty buying cellphones and iPods, and
Selling drugs out of their baby's stroller.
I'm sick of idiots strolling around
With their pants on da ground.
I'm sick of names like Sheniqua, Latifa, and Jamal.
I'm sick of domestic disputes between toothless lard bags,
And their common-law breakfast
Of chips with mayo.
I'm sick of white kids from the burbs
Trying to be gangsta, while the real gangs
Shoot and leave each other in the gutter.
I'm sick of corruption and poverty and hopelessness,
And the rappers that the four-year-olds drinking
Coke from the bottle adore and emulate.
I'm sick of the man-child, hanging on to his girl
For dear life,
And seeing the best people
Living out on the street.
I'm sick of smoggy sunsets and starless skies.
I'm sick of the crack, the cranks, and their city.
I'm leaving home.