Everyone wants the chill spot, the hot cool, hip, mellow, frontin’, “spot”. “Where it at? Where it be?” I tell you “brother” it ain’t in the “city”.
Drunk, loud, young, lost. “Gimme a patron, and a girlie vodka shot. This ain’t the city of Lenny and Ed. Cyrus got shot dead… can you dig that? Loud drunk kids from an almost Ivy, but these boys are definitely country…. almost. Americana has invaded my city of vice, and turned it into silly little anecdote, ridden with talking black mice. A joke, a story, a travel destination. “Is that where Yusef got shot? Yusef who?”
I’ve been too long in the “city”. Take me home tonight, and gimme those trees, along with a faux Caribbean breeze. Bust out a beat to release my soul with Chuck, Jigga, Babs and Bobby, yes, drinking straight whiskey till we all get silly.
I’m going home where the chill spot’s at, they haven’t chased us out, not just yet.
I’m going to the BK, and that ain’t no joke, give me a cyclone, half a dozen warriors, and a philly to smoke. F the police? Naaah, fuck Gotham proper, I’m going home to live out my own hip-hopera. Whether deep in the ‘bush, or keepin’ it fly in the ‘stuy, just keep it away from that lame-ass preppy guy.
Veni, Vidi, Vici… the came they saw, and they slept on the heart, the essence, the vibe, the pulse of new york.