HUSTLA

HUSTLA
BY: CEDRIC D. BUTLER

Yeah it’s real niggas…
I’ve hustled on these streets…
And I’ve worked 9 to 5's…
All to make ends meet…
I’m a certified hustla…
Born and bred in the Roc…
From Atkinson to Fight Square…
Dewey Ave to J-Block…
It’s not my imagination…
I survived incarceration…
The shackles and the chains…
On that state paid vacation…
I’ve had the numbers on my chest…
I’ve worn the state greens…
I still remember my DIN…
94-B-2219…
Three hots and a cot…
Mad pressure on my dome…
CO's in my face spittin…
Jeopardizing my trip home…
Forced to hold my tongue…
To become less of a man…
Not allowed to move my bowels…
Unless the guards say I can…
There’s no rehabilitation…
That’s not even going down…
Prison brings big business…
To major cities and small towns…
Many dudes enter men…
But they leave criminal minded…
Some are afraid to face the world…
With no walls to keep them binded…
Some choose to do the right thing…
And get their lives back on track…
Some choose to return to the block…
To push and peddle crack…
Some know that they are doomed…
They are destined to come back…
Some won't even take the chance…
They refuse to go out like that…
Prison is not my intended future…
But this I’ll let you know…
I’ll bang the streets and get that bread…
Before I starve on these streets fa sho…

Because I’m a hustla!