Sung to the tune of Mamas Don’t Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.

Street punks ain’t easy to love and they’re harder t’ hold.
They’d rather fill their front teeth with diamonds and gold.
Stuff that they’ve stolen and pants at half mast
And 9 mil black glocks just for fun
If you don’t correct him, he’ll prob’ly die young,
Shot by another thug’s gun.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be gangsters.
Don’t let ‘em hate white folks and rob grocery stores.
Make ‘em do homework and errands and chores.
Mamas don’t let your babies grow up as gangbangers.
‘Cuz they’ll live on the street and die on the street,
Tryin to prove that they’re tough.

Gangsters like tattoos and Pepsi with weed every mornin,
Phat bubble butts and home girls they’ll never respect.
They think it’s great to make babies that they’ll never support
‘Cause street cred they’ve got to protect.
They can’t get jobs ‘cause they have cocky attitudes
And dress like they live in a ‘hood.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be home boys.
Tell ‘em that stayin in school don’t mean “actin white.”
Make ‘em read good books and stay home at night.
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be street thugs;
‘Cause yellin at cops while they’re jumpin on cars,
Don’t make them any good friends.