I see you with your friends
Hanging out
You're my little man
No doubt
And that's the part
That kinda got me worried
Kids these days
Getting old in a hurry
Everyday gun play
By some crazy mutha
Shooting up schools
For no good reason other
Than they're scared and confused
Life's unfair so they choose
To cock the glock
And make the six o'clock news
Which comes on the box
Right after Jerky Springer
Waving his finger
At some studio ringer
Talk show whore
Making fun of the poor
A punch in the jaw
Crowd roars for more
Like that wrestling federation
It's a negative vibration
Across the nation
Television's on
Pushing 'Leprechaun'
So pull out the plug
And let me tell you something son
Let me tell you where you're from

First thing,
One time we were kings
Under Brehon law
Fair to the weak and the strong
But thugs came in
So called aristocratics
Crossed the sea
Gave us some static
Have you heard before
About Fiach O'Byrne at Glenmalure
Picked up his sword
Showed Lord Gray the door
But An Gorta Mór
Nearly wiped us out
So we were poor
By the time we came out
To Brooklyn, U.S.A.
Worked like slaves
For no pay
Both my Grandfathers
Fought for their due
The I.R.A became the T.W.U.
But once more
Thugs knocked on the door
And once more son
We went to war
For five years in Burma
Da was in the zone
Uncle Andrew,
Uncle Hughie,
They never made it home
So take some time out,
Remember what they done
And let me tell you something son,
Let me tell you where you're from

I see you on the street
You make me proud
Keep your two feet
On solid ground
Confrontation everywhere
You turn your head
With no foundation
You'll be easily led
By all the wrong folks
For all the wrong reasons
Leave them on the shelf
Look within yourself
And keep it mind son
You come from a tribe son
You've got the heart
Of a lion son
That's how we've survived son
So don't be no thug
But don't be no herb either
Don't give no one shit
But don't take no shit neither
To know where you're going
You gotta know where you're from
And let me tell you something son