Trifling Juvenile Players Harping Silly Tunes

Trifling juvenile players harping silly tunes Guns and bling-bling, fake love and stuff like that I'm no candy man, never been, but I know this You will need to cut back on the crap Or we will forever hear your lives going drip-drip All over a collection of nick-knacks, I'll be damned A finger snaps and the so-called snitch screams In between sobs he hopes this in just a bad dream Fake soldier takes a puff from the cancer stick And draws a heart of smoke in the air This, he says, waving pistol for emphasis Is what happens when you go telling on a gangster And the lost lieutenants nod their noggins Some gang-banger somewhere is reloading At the station a sergeant fancies himself a swiffer Appointed by his conscience to make the streets cleaner You kids are swift but the arm of the law is swifter So play your lame game and watch him work his cleaver Too many people think violence is a love song But the moment you think you got it you're wrong Go figure. This is not about pointing fingers But a sense of ominous foreboding lingers