When you think of Puerto Rico,
You think of streets filled with tears slipping through the Mambo.
Cold while holding hope as close as they can,
Feeding on whatever on going rivers flow...
Maddening in so many degrees so far above its boiling point,
Emotions bubble as kids struggle to gasp for air without a choice.
Why shouldn't I voice an island I have close ties in?
I speak the same dialect,
Feast on the same foods,
Create through the same tunes our ancestors inspired and,
Dance the same steps they laid across to move along free,
Im the streets of BX where we let them suffer...
In the hands of our own mother,
Smothered in a curse of war and pestilence.
Diseased by cold-blooded ways,
As we wave the AKs at our own chests...