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!