Vicious Circle Poem by Ima Ryma

The ghetto, that's where he was born,
And that's where he was gonna die.
His life was something sad to mourn.
Death waited for its turn nearby.
He learned to hustle and to beg,
A lying, thieving kid who had
A rap sheet longer than his leg.
He became good at being bad.
Caught on that fast, cool carousel,
With a street gang of teenage thugs,
Going around in living hell.
At 14, he o.d.ed on drugs.

He was off the ghetto-go-round,
Buried beneath it in the ground.