In the ghetto we don’t have time to look the other way. There is no place for academics or morals. There is no place for blue waters, meditation, relaxation, waxxxxaaationnn. We feed on bone-colliding-sewer-lovemaking, on brother-sister-i-trust-you-will-die-young, on cigarette butts and homemade shitade. Your compact discs are our mirrors, our frisbees. Ya gotta teach yer gals our tricks, our diets, ye boyys how to spit on a shoe before shining it. Ya gotta teach them those tricks i tell ya. On the dance floors ya gotta learn not to step on toes, ya gotta learn how to crush souls with those feet. Yeah...ghetto. Sugar, baby...Sugar. Lollypops, teddy bears, red ribbons, yellow ribbons, stuffed rubbers, perfumed arses, eyelashes, cleavage, cheese, cheesecakes, ease, ooz, selected booze, stones, blood-stained-stolen-crowns, silver plates, ashtrays, tanneries, vitamin capsules, upgraded credit cards, newly-dusted-livingroom-corner-silent-pianos, proud flesh, electroencephalogram-your-brains-are-functioning-well-diplomas, humbug-novels, early-morning-newspapers, Q&As, seven o’clock in the morning, five o’clock in the evening, clock, vacation savings, retirement savings, savings, insurance, classical-or-post-modern-newwave-experimental-art-fart, writing-about-life-in-the-ghetto, all shapes of boredom, don’t matter here. The dog still barks and humanoids still can’t identify our smell. Sniff, sniff...
moe