Gimme back... Gimme back my Bullet.

I lament the loss of my city. The City. You used to have to have balls and be fuckin smart. You used to have to keep yer head on a swivel. SF and NYC were like sister cities in a lot of ways. Packs of angry kids lookin for kicks. Racial tensions. Chicken hawks preyin' on young stuff who in turn preyed back. Robbin' chicken hawk motherfuckers like it was a game. Rippin off the supermarket booze and runnin rampant. We shook the pillars. We rocked. Didn't take shit. Arrogant know it all hip motherfuckers got smacked. No room for pussies. People got wasted. We got shot at by wannabe mobsters on Broadway, and the TL was a fuckin total wasteland jungle. Transvestite hookers from the Philipines carryin' straightrazors and would take us on in a heartbeat. They'd cut ya. You hadda have an agenda, man. A habit. A hustle. We hid weapons in the awnings of hotels and in the bases of downtown tree planters. Every show was a bloodfest. Skateboard trucks cracked across heads bringin red red kroovy. Boot parties, and skinhead 'taxation'. You earned yer place in subculture, and subculture was where you found yourself, not somewhere you visited. Not something you chose. We rode whatever wave came along and rode it til the wheels fell the fuck off and a lot of motherfuckers wiped out. The Lower Haight was still part of The Moe and you hadda be tough if you were white and livin' down there. Gettin' jumped was a regular thing. So was jumpin' folk. Take a flight jacket or boots offa fallen poser. Jumped by sweatsuits and red Levi's passin by the VeeGees on Valencia. Fuck Ups single "White Boy(in the Mission)" meant something and made sense. WPOD kicked major ass in Derby jackets and Ben Davis... working class uniforms on youth attempting to hold on to something left over from the 50's that was slippin away... fast. Defend your neighborhood, friends. Die for your hood and keep the hood in your heart, and stay hood. Stay A Hood. Robin Hood. Robbin' hoods. Hipsters robbin' 'hoods of the flavors and pushin hoods out. Used to be yuppies. They are the yuppies of the 20teens, man. Every beautiful city is losin their neighborhoods. I'ma kick you off yer fixie and shove yer IPhone up yer fuckin' ass. You gotta bleed for this city. City of transplants. City of JohnnyCumQuickly Come Late. Yer late for the feeding. We bled for you. We pioneered. We were used like cannon fodder for your urban takeover. You're skim-milk foam latte to my jungle juice and dust. Hail me like a king and hero of legend. My blood and the blood of many pave the sidewalk in front of the quaint little boutique, fasion theme bar, or cafe you adore since your lilly-white ass moved here from Iowa. Every scaR has a story and every tattoo was on my skin before there were reality shows about homoginized cool turds allowing me to be approached. This was anti-social behaviour and it was learned and earned and needed. Warpaint that in MY case said "This crazy fucker doesn't give a rat's ass! Stay away from him!", and not a single one said "this flower represents my mother because she really loved begonias". BOW TO YOUR SENSAI! Your neighborhood's safe because I fucking survived the horrors you wouldn't have been able to stomach. We'll see how many of you fuckers are left after the next big Quake. I watched you run before, I'll see it again. I demand to be treated with respect. I know you won't- and that's ok. You can't possibly understand. You missed it. We were crucifed long before you padfooted greenhorns mosied in. Just don't be surprised when ya get bitch slapped. Because I'm a real motherfucker, and sometimes a turd needs to get flushed.