Poor On Poor Poem by Ima Ryma

The inner city's where I roam
With all the other kids like me.
The streets are the only real home,
And that is where we'll always be.
Most moms and dads look for the Man
To give 'em money to get by.
Survival is the only plan,
Cuz all that's for sure is to die.
Out there we know we're just a stat,
Bounced about like a ping pong ball.
What percent of poor are we at?
And will that percent ever fall?

Been born into this neighborhood,
And gonna grow up to no good.