I roll slow through these streets,
where the whores work for tips and the blood leaks.
Money, a sad joke, hard to keep,
I pay the rent, but sleep comes cheap.
Caddy cruisin’, windows down,
the smell of piss clings to this town.
Street cred?
What’s that worth?
When every man’s born to die, cursed since birth.
Gun in the glove box, hands...
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