I had a best friend named Chance,
As kids we were so close,
I ate in his house, slept on his couch, we even shared clothes,
We were like brothers,
Both born into a broken home,
Running the streets, we were often left alone,
before we learned to read or write,
we learned how to fight and dance.
So, according to the statistics we never had a chance,
Now, Chance was beyond his time,
At 13, he was going on 35,
And since he loved to shine,
He spent most of his time,
Trying to get a dime,
Selling base became his grind,
Baseball became mine,
So, as we grew older we barely spent any time,
At the age of 14, still in his youth,
He got the same tattoo as Tupac in Juice,
same Coogi sweater as Biggie under the leather, (pause)
It was all a Dream to become a rapper, but he needed one more chance,
Because at 15, while sitting in a car with one of his friends,
he was shot,
ironically just like Biggie and Pac,
Standing in Shock,
at his funeral, over his casket,
I couldn't help but think,
This could have been me,(pause)
Because every year gun homicides,
continue to rise,
to become the number one demise,
of teenage minority lives(pause),
We must all realize?
The value of life,
Because If Chance is not alive,
and I survived,
Its a 50-50 chance,
And numbers don't lie,
So, as young black men,
At this rate, we will always have a slim chance,
Statistics