Croakies. Boatshoes… Collars up. Daddy’s money increased my social status…
“Dang, my loafer got smudged”
We are the suburban elite.
“Hey where y’all wanna meet?”
I’ve got something to fucking prove man, I’ve really gotten something to prove.
Dude… Brah… let’s go party tonight…
Maybe start another goddamn fight…
But it’s all right… my coach knows the sheriff.
Don’t stare…
At my car.
At my shirt.
At my girl.