*so my boy mark grabs that little spic in a headlock, jumps off the 4th floor step, yelling west side story, and face slammed the motherfucker* - Poppa Smedley I don't want to leave this town Spent years wanting this ground A foul up with my lease These drones they can't appease Guess I'll go back to that blight Where pops grew up with white flight And we each have our memories Some bitter, some are sweet Those overnights in jail Fucked up that nigger - didn't get bail Cinnamon in bed bug sheets My pawn shop raided by swat team The shows we'd perform or promote Hardcore, punk, emo, or folk Strolls in snow in business district Sometimes melancholy, sometimes kisses Someone shot outside my place Well you can guess the race The two neighbor families, white Well we'd look out for our kind Guess I'll go back to P-Vegas Where there's no functioning train station In this cutthroat rental market Family friendly towns are targets Yet that town still has nice places Where the wise had segregated But it's not my Yankee klan bed In secret peace we rest our head But I guess I'm going back And I may have to go strapped Leave these cunts some sand to pound But I'll return to this town