| His name was Rasool
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| Carmel complected boy from the twenty two
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| Rough on the outside but inside he was cool
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| Rasool was a king but also a fool
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| Back on the block again with the same crew
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| Tariq from the west side, little John from the Avenue
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| Always seen 'em 'bout a quarter to two
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| Shakin' hands with everybody
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| But at the same time sharin' the blues
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| And ohh he passed it on
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| Shakin' hands till what was in his pockets was gone
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| He’d be outside in the cold with his bubble goose on
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| But inside somehow, I knew he wasn’t warm
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| Around ten thirty on that dreary night
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| His boys said they were hungry
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| Wanted to get a bite, now they didn’t send a runner
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| Rasool knew it wasn’t right
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| But he stayed anyway tryin' to get the chain he liked
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| Ohh, how the shots rang in the streets
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| Hittin' everybody in the surrounding vicinity
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| Children of children, one young father to be
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| And Rasool lay dead on my North Philly street
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| At fifteen years old, it was the first death I’d seen
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| But in years to come there’d be many many brothers slained
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| Tryin' to win at the game
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| But the game ain’t designed for no kind of winning
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| Oh this is a friend of Rasool, begging you to think about
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| What you do and who you call your crew
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| The very choices you make, may make a Rasool out of you
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| Now you don’t want that, do you?
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| You don’t want that, do you?
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| Do you? |
| Do you? |
| Do you? |
| Do you?
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| You don’t want that
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| You don’t want that
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| You don’t want that
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| You don’t want that |