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About New York City

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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The neighborhoods? Straight scenes outta a movie. Little Magnolia, for instance, is packed with colorful murals – graffiti that tells a tale, stories like "you gotta live fast, then slow it down." Bruh, sometimes I feel like a character in some bittersweet saga, like when Saul whispers, "What is this coming to?" while I’m trippin' on the city’s heartbeat.

My brown eyed girl