Pity the fate of young fellows
Too long a bed with no sleep
With their complex romantic attachments
All look on their sorrows and weep
They don't get a moment's reflection
There's always a crowd in their eye
Pity the plight of young fellows
Regard all their worries and cry
Their Christian mothers were lazy perhaps
Leaving it up to the school
Where the moral perspective is hazy perhaps
And the climate; oppressively cool
Give me one acre of cellos
Pitched at some distant regret
Pity the fate of young fellows
And their anxious attempts to forget
These are the tears of a thug like murky water
Crying tears as clear as mud for his father's daughter
His half-sister; he felt obliged to support her
Since her mum was poor and his dad died even poorer
Separated until she was eight years old
He knew as soon as he saw her
That he adored her, so he's baying for blood with a borer
And an automatic weapon; Smith & Weston
That'd split a fucking hole in your chest then he's been looking to corner
The perpetrators responsible for a killing
Now he's finally got 'em where he wants 'em
And blood will start spilling
The atmosphere in the air tonight is chilling
The blanket of stars above their heads in the sky feels like a ceiling
Slowly crushing down on 'em as the terror starts progressing
That leaves the youngest of the two open to his suggestion
Only 13 years old; pubescent adolescent
About to learn a very harsh and depressing lesson
These are the tears of a wanna-be thug
Crying tears as thick as blood cause his elders set him up
To take the fall and now he's stuck with no way of getting out
'Cause even if there was a way he'd still want to vent this anger out
Without a doubt these streets are rife with corruption
Young minds get corrupt even so easily fucked that only leads to destruction in the end
False assumptions that people have your back makes you believe they're your friends
All though some represent; no one can be trusted
When double o percent cause some thugs will go to lengths
To get revenge
Even if it means manipulating youths to carry skengs and do the dirty work for them
The kind of work for men
That walk the darkest paths
Not impressionable young children that never had a chance
Growing up in these manors most are doomed from the start
'Cause the minds of their peers are as ill as their hearts
Pity the fate of young fellows
Too long a bed with no sleep
With their complex romantic attachments
All look on their sorrows and weep
They don't get a moment's reflection
There's always a crowd in their eye
Pity the plight of young fellows
Regard all their worries and cry