That young boy without a name
Anywhere I'd know his face
In this city the kid's my favorite
I've seen him
I see him every day
Seen him run outside
Looking for a place to hide
From his father
The kid half naked
And said to myself
"O, what's the matter here?"

I'm tired of the excuses
Everbody uses
He's their kid
I stay out of it
But who gave you the right
To do this?

We live on Morgan Street
Just ten feet between
And his mother
I never see her
But her screams and cussing
I hear them every day
Threats like
"If you don't mind
I will beat on your behind"
"Slap you, slap you silly"
Made me say
"O, what's the matter here?"

I'm tired of the excuses
Everybody uses
He's your kid
Do as you see fit
But get this through
That I don't approve
Of what you did
To you own flesh and blood

I'm tired of the excuses
Everybody uses
He's your kid
Do as you see fit
But get this through
That I don't approve
Of what you did
To you own flesh and blood

"If you don't sit
In your chair straight
I'll take this belt
From around my waist
And don't you think
That I won't use it!"
Answer me and take your time
What could be the awful crime
He could do at such young an age?
If I'm the only witness
To your madness
Offer me some words to balance
Out what I see and what I hear
All these cold and rude
Things that you do
I suppose you do
Because he belongs to you
And instead of love
And the feel of warmth
You've given him these cuts
And sores won't heal
With time or age
I want to say
"What's the Matter here?"
But I don't dare say
"What's the Matter here?"
But I don't dare say

Turnstyled, junkpiled