Us, According to Mr. America

"Whassamatta with you guys?!"

So I’m chillin’ all up in my place, with my friends. We have some sweet beats going on and the beer is flowing. I feel like busting a rhyme but the bitches on my balcony are getting quiet. I go out there with a with an empty soldier, bust him over the railing and wave it at the girls, “What’s the matter with you guys?! What’s the matter with you guys, huh?!” I know I’m a Puerto Rican lover, a Latin stallion. If a girl doesn’t want to give me pussy first time round, I can wait. I know I’ll get it soon.

I pop some pills and try to chill out. Next thing I know, it’s morning. The annoying students downstairs have called the landlord on me again, and he’s all up in my grill about noise and how he doesn’t want to have to tell my wife about the prostitutes, parties and drugs, but he will if I don’t fall into line.

I have to go to their place, No. 3, and ask to borrow their key, cos I lost mine again. I copied theirs once before, and I also once asked the other guy to borrow his, but I lost it before I copied it. Fuck him.

Then the dude at No. 3 with the glasses is telling me how I’m not a kid anymore, that he’s gotta work and I’m fucking with his sleep. I have to be nice cos I know the landlord loves them, but fuck he’s annoying. My head is throbbing and I know his woman is listening inside, but she always looks a little scared when she sees me. She once told me to shut the fuck up when I was practicing my mating call on my balcony.

He’s crapping on me for leaving my garbage on the stairs for a coupla weeks and all I want is the goddamn key.

I apologise, but they must be tripping if they think I’m gonna tone it down for them. I’m from the Big Apple, I’m a Puerto Rican motherfucker, and I’m gonna rule this town.

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