Uh well-a well-a well-a Ugh.
Tell me more.
Tell me more.
Err'body back from camp.
Swapping stories.
With mad emphasis.
Not bad, huh?
For some ignorants.
But who told the greatest tale?
Where does the narrative go when we've plundered the archives?
Exasperated the canon?
Raped and pillaged the catalog on some gully a** uptown sh**?
Tryna sell a product.
Tryna push dust to the fiends.
Tryna pull the H-Tweedy over the eyes of the unsuspecting dashmunchers.
Soft shoeing those PR blasts with the best of ‘em.
Smoke and Mirrors.
Up on that vaudeville stage.
And all of a sudden.
Someone yells bullsh**.
In the crowded theater we call #menswear.
Where bottom of the map Italian ish gets dressed up like Juliet.
And heritage gets tomatoed.
Or is is the other way around?
Go ask Rap.
Ugh.
Sometimes I just want some crusty a** old head editor to run up on me.
OD at CO-OP.
IRL at Neimans.
Smack me upside my cranial.
With the ill quickness.
Grab my grosgrain placket.
Lift me up off my feet.
Out of this sh**ty life.
And tell me.
“This is your story.”
But until then.
Style Sisyphus.
On that new new.
Couldn't afford Celine.
So I ball hard on my carpus game.
OG charms up on my wristicles.
That sh** bray.
Everyone needs a little support now and again.
RSI from all the RT's.
Steezy Bandz.
Can I trade you?
This one's shaped like Woost God's koi tat.
Enough talk.
Where the f** is my pa**ion fruit lean?
I'm fighting my way to the pinnacle.
One round at a time.
f** your masthead.
I'm in the crow's nest.
Sitting high above the crashing squals.
I'm in a space shuttle.
Floating high above the cosmos.
I'm deep below the Smithsonian.
Chillen in the cavernous underbelly.
Rewriting the history books.
Editing the scrolls.
Polishing the New World Order.
McNasty was a cobbler.
Trep laid wack tweets.
FYMW scrolled the holy post.
Get the hell up out your pleats.