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About New York City

Still, it’s a minefield, mate. Angry again—blokes get ripped off left, right, and center. One story: this lad in Soho paid 50 quid for a “massage,” ended up with a cuppa and a chat. Robbed! “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” I reckon—total stitch-up. Me, I’d be too paranoid—am I getting mugged off? Is she a cop? Total buzzkill. Still, if you’re smart, play it cool, you might just find the goods. “I’m the one who knocks,” I’d say—nah, scratch that, wrong film. “I’m Batman!” There we go. Class.

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I stroll these blocks, err, sometimes too fast, tippin to beats in my head. Ain’t no perfect grammar in these streets, but there’s truth. Like, Holy sh! these roads be whisperin’ secrets – sometimes I swear I hear the echoes of Julian Schnabel’s camera clicks, “I can fly away,” and then I’m tryna bounce like my rhymes.

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