RPMs

What they do is, they sort of sit in, uh
Fake taxis, you know, four
Beefy white guys, uh, Sit in
A fake taxi by the side
Of the Williamsburg Bridge
And they eyeball what's coming
Over from Brooklyn and, If the car looks
Like a $200 shit-box
Or somebody's got an afro or a
Ponytail, uh, they pull up, pull
In behind the car, And
They wait to see if the
Guy's going to go all
Polite in his driving, like
Put on lane-change signals
Then they know he's dirty

Bucket seats back of the squad car, ridin'
Through smudged glass, concrete
Wrought iron flyin'
Knees jammed, sea legs, dry land
Cuffed hands, mouth fulla sand
Thick, stone in the shoe
Still talk slick like
"I'll be home in a few"
They're amused, took the right on Throop
Came down Hewes, chills like the flu
Thoughts of the box
A hundred niggas just like you
Warm milk and mayonnaise
Nobodies scratch they names
Empty vessels, grindin', mortar to pestle
Moon hang, jaundiced bezel
Engine wrestle, up blocks
Radios crackle with fired shots
Knockos on that no-knock
"Who's there?" They smell fear
Front windows down, weed in the air
Brown bag beers
Grilling on aluminum foil, Summer nights
Slow boil driving slow, just to be jerks
Negroes watch like it's a hearse dug deep
Gave the whole hood that Max B smirk