Thug Poetry

Our collection of thug poetry reflects the rich texture of urban life.  Maybe yo ain’t had it easy, but yo gonna change all that, leave your mark on the world.  There's no limit to how high you can fly. The only boundaries are the ones you place on yourself.

Let our poems about the gangsta scene help you keep it real and tell it like it is. Ain't nobody gonna pre-judge you if you have your say. You gonna show them that a thug can express himself in a very homey but poetic way.

Even if your not from the hood, you gonna absolutely love the art and rhythms of this vibrant genre.

Just Chillin

Me and my boys sitting on the stoop
Skipping school
Just Chillin.

Me and my boys watching the block
Waiting for the man…
Selling a little rock
Just Chillin.

Lil J gonna be out on bail real soon.
Popo caught him with a 22,
No papers on the 6th moon.
He was Just Chillin.

Back in the Day

Once a man could walk down the streets;
Niggers everywhere trying to kiss his feet.
Like Frank Lucas and Nicky Barnes
Pockets were hanging deep.

That was back in the day
When the drug kings had their say
And people ran scared
For their lives.
A man touched you;
You knew better
Than to slap his wife.

Now the gangsters
Are nothing but kids,
Killin to make a name
And trying to fit in.
Back in the day
That might have been cool.
Now I’m sitting on death row –
Who’s the fool?

My Game

Ain’t no shame to my game.
Got two kids who need to eat
Like Sarah Jessica,
I like Jimmy Choos on my feet.

Don’t have no problem
Being call a “ho”.
Just as long as a homey
Got money to blow.

It’s a recession,
And a dime buys nothing.
Better be stacking at least 2 Gs
If you wanna get with me.

What To Say?

Don’t be a snitch.
Don’t smile;
Don’t frown.
Say nuthin
But “I want my lawyer”
Even if you ain’t got one.

If the Popo puts a hand on you,
Don’t take his bait.
Hold it in;
Hold it tight.
That punk SOB can wait.

Soon you’ll be free,
And he’ll be on his knees,
Begging you to let it ride
Instead of dealing his final card.

Don’t be a snitch.
Say nuthin
Or you’ll be in stitches.

Hard Out Here for a Kid

My father left home long ago;
My drunk of a mother
Told me so.
You can’t believe nuthin
She says.
She takes the side
Of whoever pays.

I have no food,
And no bed.
Not calling it quits;
She’ll be happy
If I’m dead.

On the streets,
I make my living.
Robbing, dog fighting,
And a little drug dealing.

I wish things were different
But the world I was born into
I can’t change.
I am a product of what my father did;
It’s hard out here for a kid.

Poetry by Natasha Niemi

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