I was raised on the streets,
And raised as a fighter I was,
With black-eyes and fist-fights,
And blood on my hands,
‘Fore I was sixteen years old,
And even younger still,
I was introduced to such life-long friends,
As heroin and alcohol.

In school and church we get the same lecture,
The same shaken heads and condescending looks,
Because we don’t have values,
And ethics too,
But personal integrity is like a fancy car,
Both being luxuries,
I can’t afford.

I see them now on buses and city streets,
The loss leaders of modern society,
The old woman and business men who tip their nose in indignation,
Understanding nothing of such things as opportunity cost,
Or scarcity of choice,
And in trying to explain,
I just wade thicker into social condemnation,
Encountering a wall of locked doors,
And spiteful looks,
Instead of open-minded understanding,
And so instead,
I leave the accusers,
And the people who shake their heads behind,
In search of understanding,
Among more profit-wielding retailers.

Created: April 14, 2001r.
Last Updated: April 14, 2001r.