Ghetto Child

They call me a ghetto child
Because I come from the streets
The streets of dirt-filled roads
And homemade tortillas.
The sound of my speech
Has a funny ring
What´s with me adding a Spanish word
Every now and then when I speak.

We´re in thee America, they say,
Speak thy English!
As if I haven´t noticed,
With the big buildings and fancy cars.

The way I dress isn´t cool or hip,
It´s too raggedy they say.
But how else am I supposed to dress?
`Old School´they call it,
Too cheap and not enough bling bling.

Did they forget I´m a ghetto child?
I like the simple things.
Catch on, they say,
To which I reply:
There´s nothing to catch on to,
I´d rather be the ghetto child
That I am.
Living my simple life,
Trying to make ends meet.

That´s living poor, they yell,
But it´s the only way I know how to live
And I wouldn´t change it for a thing.

Ghetto child!! Ghetto child!!
There goes the ghetto child
Walking with his head held high and mighty,
Wearing the most raggedy things.

They chant and I smile joining in.
Yes, that be me!
Perplexed they stand
Not knowing what else to say
So I let them be, as I walk my streets
Living my life, as a ghetto child.
Yes, that be me!

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