Life is hard, that’s somethin I don’t have to mention//
Thieves and drug dealers born with hearts that pump good intention//
Trapped in rowhome jungles and asphalt rivers/ you got ‘at fault’ sinners//
Lost in crack caulked prisons/ we impervious to time as days go by//
Blacks in basement of society and why we stay so high//
There ain’t no need to ask why/ we smoke till our lips stay white//
Cuz the powers that be push that kryptonite//
I knew a girl named Candy, she was fine as can be//
Far smarter than any dime that you would meet on the street//
While other shorties in the hood stayed bein gassed up and girls interrupted//
Candy readin Plato’s book The Republic//
That fast life of sex, drugs, and money she stay reluctant//
But poverty will make the best spirits corrupted//
The kid’s dad skipped out, so she gotta do sumthin/
She’s tries every honest option and still ain’t productive//
It’s tough for single mothers, in times ran by men//
She can’t take her kids cries from being hungry again//
2 full time jobs and a part-time/ equals some hard times//
Turnin bright hearts into dark minds//
Sick and tired of the diet of saltines and sar/dines//
The kind of situations that in good people spark crime//
From strong like a mountain to unstable like fault lines//
Real life is real pain like open wounds in a salt mine//


Worst came to worst so now Candy’s a night walker//
She’ll do anything to feed her kids including what haunts her//
The deeper down the road she went, it made the light darker//
But she’ll copulate for capital if she got the right offer//
No judgin’ this woman doin what she think is best//
You’ll be surprised what we’ll do when our backs is pressed//
Can’t fix the problem if the root of issues never addressed//
The amount of love we show should be how we measure success//
But that’s not the real world that we live in/ instead we push sin//
We hit the ground face first with no cush-shin//
No savin this rose from the weeds that rush in//
So she’s made to touch men/ so she can touch ends//
Threats of murder by hailstones from gun winds//
Can’t measure her spirit, but still measured in ten’s//
80 for an hour/ buys her babies some McDonalds//
But this line of work leaves her one John from asylums//
Stop whinin bout your job, she got real problems//
Street life has showed her sex the real ‘American Idol’//
Prostitute or hooker, no comparin the titles//
In the hood, shameful acts is the snare of survival//
Until she finds a way to ease and soothe her dismay//
Amnesia and stilettos are the tools of her trade//