Not My Job To Fix’ Um

Saw the footage, news play it back in slow-mo,

Shorty hit the gas like he stuntin’ in a promo.

Flatbed swingin’ wide, metal sparkin’ off the concrete,

Blasted through the storefront—glass rainin’ on the street.

Lil’ neggas tweaked out, whole squad movin’ reckless,

Grabbin’ handguns like they tryna fill a checklist.

No guidance, no chill, only chaos on command,

They got IG dreams and a death wish in hand.

Homies talk heavy: “Yo, we gotta reach these youths.”

But they don’t listen to wisdom, only viral truths.

I can’t play savior when they wired for the smoke,

They’ll follow a meme before they follow a grown folk.

Bro asked, “What now? How we keep ’em from the prison?”

I shrugged, “Look man, that ain’t my mission.”

I ain’t Dr. Phil, ain’t the counselor in the system—

“I’m not a mechanic, so it ain’t my job to fix ’um.”

I seen a news clip—lil’ neggas wildin’ out again,

Fourteen years old, stole a flatbed with his friends.

Drove it through a wall like he born in a war zone,

Smashin’ up the shop tryna grip a new chrome.

City stay spinnin’, everybody play victim,

No one wanna teach ’em but everybody wanna fix ’em.

Bro asked why they break down, I gave him the wisdom—

“I’m not a mechanic—ain’t my job to fix ’um.”

These lil’ neggas movin’ foul, whole block hear the chaos,

No fear, no brakes, like the pedal never stay off.

Fourteen but they talk like they thirty in the booth,

Tryna chase street cred, don’t even know the truth.

Flatbed draggin’ sparks, alarms screamin’ through the night,

Shorties duckin’ cameras, tryna make it outta sight.

World turned backwards, guidance turned ghost,

Parents burned out, schools stretched the most.

Everybody point fingers but nobody take charge,

Then cry when the youth end up locked behind bars.

Homie said, “Bro, what’s the fix? How we steer ’em right?”

But that ain’t my lane, I ain’t rebuildin’ they life.

Call me cold-hearted, call me numb to the system—

But I can’t torque fears, can’t tighten their wisdom.

I said, “Real talk, big dawg, I ain’t even in the kitchen—

I’m not a mechanic—ain’t my job to fix ’um.”

I seen a news clip—lil’ neggas wildin’ out again,

Fourteen years old, stole a flatbed with his friends.

Drove it through a wall like he born in a war zone,

Smashin’ up the shop tryna grip a new chrome.

Whole world spinnin’, grown folks play victim,

Cryin’ ’bout the youth but too scared to go lift ’em.

Homie asked how to save ’em—my answer still hittin’:

“I’m not a mechanic—ain’t my job to fix ’um.”

If a lil’ negga wanna act grown, I’ll lay him out with my chrome,

Game over—birthday canceled, send that boy home.

Ain’t no lessons in the street when the cold gets real,

You either listen to the wise or you learn by steel.

Homie want solutions but the streets too numb,

Kids raised by WiFi tryna outrun outcomes.

No cap, no fiction—my stance locked in:

“I’m not a mechanic—ain’t my job to fix ’em.”