Rumors abound Inmate so-and-so gotta parole date.
Last Monday, but sucker don't even
Know his woman done run off with "Sweet Cadillac Wille"
Who spent her

Welfare check on gasoline an' blow on a new pair of skins.
An' that scary lil wimp locks on B-Block ain't cool, man.
Snitched on his rap-partner 'bout that rape-kidnap-homicide-robbery back in
'76.

Hit goin' down in the Big Yard.

Stay away, Homie.

'Cause bookies layin' ten-to-one odds some lieutenant finds the rat with his
Head propped up on the

End of a long shank.

When they find the body what they do is ship it home in a cheap plywood box,
Tag with his number on it swinging listlessly on his big toe an' a
"What have I done to deserve this?" look on his dumb ugly face.
Other day seen new blood shambling through

The reception gate talkin' loud an' all cocky like he Mr. T. So a
Big mean lookin' con doin' life for

Mutilating his pregnant wife walks boldly up to Young blood an'
Whispers somethin' soft an' sweet to 'im an' next day Young blood's lips are
Red an' glossy an'

His hair is long an' straight an' he's switchin' 'round the Big Yard
Like he Diana Ross.

'An the big con says, "Hot young punk for sale, y'all!"
Squinting into the sun, Old Man "Pops" says he been down so long he done lost
Count.
"Kinda git used to it af'ta while, son," Pops says: "The big time hoods an'
Their paper Cadillacs on cruise control.
The Ho's on the stroll down the endless lightless white-clay strip.
Crack junkies chillin' out on smoke-marshmallow clouds.
Pseudo-intellectuals over there rappin' 'bout the struggle.
An' the hapless chorus of crooners tryin' to sound like the Temptations."

Pops says he don't pay 'im

No mind an' he ain't listenin'

Don't even care 'bout nothin' 'cause he ain't neva had a woman noway.
Old bones runs the
Big Yard through

Chugging along like a locomotive

Runs all day long -
Bookies layin' ten-to-one odds old Pops plannin' to fly right over the big
Wall.