Buddy of mine wants to start a dot-com;
he lost both his legs to a claymore in 'Nam.
Feds turned down his b-plan as being too radical,
so he's selling his medals to raise up some capital.
Says he still swears by the American Way;
but the bid's topping out at 100 on eBay.
If it hurts him, well, he ain't letting it show;
he's convinced himself that he's already let go.
So calm as he starts to take pics of his wheelchair.
I was sure he'd have listed it if I wasn't right there.
I said, 'Come on bro let me lend you a hand,
saving ass at Da-Nang must be worth least 2 grand.'
Next thing he's crying as I point to the screen.
My sniper's won his medals for 115.
My sister's girlfriend still works as a dancer.
Daughter asked what she did nights, she couldn't answer.
Ever since her man left it's covered the rent,
though by month end all that she's worked for is spent.
Since 16 she's been hiding the truth,
behind the last vestige of laughter and youth.
Blush and nail polish to cover the hurt
since the night that her father tested her worth.
Last night her baby opened up the closet,
put on music, mirror-danced in her outfits.
When she went upstairs and saw, she screamed and grabbed her,
tore off the clothes, shook her and slapped her.
Her greatest fear true, her daughter now knows.
22 and the tragedy grows.
So here I am dealing measures of hope,
benjamins in an unmarked envelope;
holding outstretched hand to desperate hand,
with my feet firmly planted in the quicksand.
How it all led here, I don't really know;
you start with the weed and you end with the blow.
I tell myself I'm here for a reason, for good,
as if I'm some homey robin freaking hood.
Am I the disease or part of the cure?
If only the answer could be more sure.
All this might change if I could just reboot,
or find the courage to finally shoot.
I wear my conscience like a dark leather jacket,
.357 in the inside pocket.