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About Philadelphia

So, I’m creepin’, heart’s poundin’, and I spot her—red lips, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. “Come what may,” I mutter, like I’m Christian swoonin’ over Satine. I stroll up, all cool, like, “Yo, lady, need a shelf built?” She laughs—LAUGHS!—and I’m like, “Score!” Happy as hell, dude, ‘cause she didn’t ditch me. Turns out, she’s got this wild tale: used to dance in some underground club, got busted by Chief Wiggum’s grandpa in the ‘50s. Freaky, right?

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I was always surprised how the locals carry on with their funky spirit. They buzz, just like my fingers on a tense muscle. There's this spot by the Buford Bridge. People say a ghost tunes up tunes there. Ain't that wild? But I be like, "I pity the fool who ain't seen it!"

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