Your streets, my streets, our streets.

No sweets on the streets,

no sugar for my arm, yeah

I be beat,

fall down in a heap

so low,

not much further you could go

Eyes of a needle stick,

A gash wound whore that would make you sick

once smooth skin knees,

now battered and bleed

so low,

not much further you could go

A face with that could steal a look,

from the hardest of crooks

when will we find our ease of mind,

from the longest war known to man kind

so disheveled and at unrest,

they tell us that they will try their best

As we grow just to gain

a generation of desensitized main,

I still want you so bad,

to go back to the life you once had

Im all used up on this constant come down.

Do people ever change or just circumstance?