Lyrics
You were born a writer’s son
On South Tacoma Way
And you rode your daddy’s shoulders
Under winter skies so gray
By the time the seasons changed
Your tiny life was rearranged
Your daddy packed his pretty words
And drove your world away
Hey Ah…
Momma planted tulip bulbs
A year after that day
To keep her mind on something else
To chase his ghost away
And you drew pictures on the walk
A little man with colored chalk
You signed your name on everything
With giant, purple “J’s”
And who could tell that you’d go wrong
Her little boy her would be man
For you she tried to get along
She worked two jobs to pay the rent
And she was too tired
When she came back home
To ask you where you went
So you carved yourself a family
From the boys who weren’t in school
Learned to follow orders
Learned a different set of rules
And you said you would never change
You’d live and die inside this gang
You’d earn respect by any means
So proud to play the fool
When you’ve never heard of Malcolm X
And Martin Luther King is just a street
That runs through Hilltop
With its pawn shops, and rival gangs
And every window wears its bars
Broken glass, gravel yards
And you think this is all life has to give
You say…
“You don’t know what’s right or wrong
I’m not a boy now I’m a man
And all my innocence is gone
And you might think that I am free
But I’m a prisoner in this life
There’s only one way out for me”
Hey Ah…
The cops they draw a chalk line
‘Round the boy who would be man
On the cracked and crumbing sidewalk
That he colored with his tiny hands
And momma cannot be consoled
Her little boy, his heart of gold
Lay broken in the street
He thought he owned
She says…
“I don’t know where I went wrong
I raised a boy to be a man
I watched him grow
And now he’s gone
And every day I’ll see his face
In every boy who walks these streets
Where such potential goes to waste”
Hey Ah…