Shit, they may as well have started holding hands
And making paper dolls together, the way they carried on
Back in the neighborhood after push came to shove,
Like none of it ever happened—all the times they spit on us,
The constant “spic” and “wetback” and “goya”, the ass-kickings.
Peace didn’t last; hell, it couldn’t—it’s just the way things have to be, man.
If I ever got in front of some parole board
(Not that I’ll ever have that chance; I ain’t goin’ anywhere
Unless they send me to Auburn or Attica for some change of pace)
This is what I’d tell ‘em:
You come home to your nice house in your tidy little sub-development
After a day at Corning or IBM, and you find out that some punk
Has screwed your daughter and stuck a shiv into her quarterback boyfriend,
What are you gonna do if you find his ass
Hiding in one of your neighbor’s rosebushes? Exactly.
Save the taxpayers the expense of a trial.
Musta been a year, maybe eighteen months ago,
This bunch of goody-goody types, all social workers and sweet boys
Show up here to put on some fucking stage play
Where this guy’s uncle kills hid dad and starts puttin’ the blocks to his mom,
Then for hours on end it’s nothing but yak, yak, yak
And I’m thinking Man, could you just ice the guy, already.
Let me tell you, I’ve never seen ‘Nardo’s ghost, let alone that fuckin’ Polack’s,
But if he ever shows, it ain’t gonna be to accuse me of nothin’.
No, he’ll smile and shake my hand, because I did
What the code says you gotta do.
Just what the code says.