Biohazard

As I look up at the sky,
I wonder why my momma always cried,
Was it for how fast we lived and died?
Or because we never got our piece of the pie?
Busting at the seams, the american dream,
Like meth said cream, boulevard of broken dreams,
Parents with good intentions never mention,
The brooklyn house of detention.
Free to fly, and free to try, to get our peace before we die,
Free to fly, and free to try, to get our piece of the pie and die.