Three gray walls and a human stained cot, these iron bars a friend are not. A steel barrel and 357 slug got this concrete floor, bare no rug. this is the cross i bear, the life of a thug. all my meals from a plastic tray, my life i fear each and every day. in the dark of nite some men cry; i put myself here it makes me sigh. The life of a thug is not a life, i lost my son and my wife. i traded the streets for federal sheets.
i wasn't myself when i was high, now a strangers family asks me why oh why. to them i stare bewildered and shamed, i killed a man not knowing his name. my trembling lips falter, so in silence i shrug this is no life the life of a thug. on the jailhouse steps two mothers cry, sewn together by a common thread, one son in jail, one son dead.
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