Bout to run six miles.
On my favorite treddy bear.
But first need to work up a sick tweet.
Something that encapsulates my one-of-a-kind grind.
My love of stylin’ on garden variety seasoning plants.
"Swerving on Bond in my blazed out midnight o’clock NBs.”
“Keep the fuck out my way plebes. #makemymonstergrow”
“Hit Lord Zedd on the BBM tip.”
Playlist on blast.
I fucks wit Frou Frou.
Maybe you’ve read about her?
On Nah Right?
Flossin’ like twelveteen types of Pitti wealth from the waist up.
Flossin’ like the number one AEPhi pledge from the waist down.
Can I get any realer?
Sartorio at Swisha House.
Boglioli at Ballys.
E. Tauz at Equinox.
Norton & Sons at New York Sports Club.
Caruso at Curves.
Just wait ‘til I add spinning.
To the rotation.
After hours Spreewells.
If only you knew.
What kind of wavy shit I’ve got over shoulder.
E Ink back.
You know your boy gets his light read on.
Fat stack of hundies.
Fresh roll of undies.
Granola for my lil’ tummy.
Finna pull some fit honies.
I smell when I’m done, B.
Getting to sleep early.
Tomorrow at the cancer marathon.
Stuntin’ on behalf of the bedridden.
Both sides of the street.
Don’t know why they cap this shit at 5K.
Balling on a budget was never my thing.
I could have dropped 10K on my jacket alone.
Fashion week post.
Post fashion week.
One final gasp.
One last grunt.
Dashboard Bombardment Society.
Da goof troop.
At the OC.
Where’s ya boy?
On some McFly shit.
MIA from the photo.
Son, your moms needs to check her hands.
We eatin’ over here.
Stretched out waistbands.
Down bitches call me Calvin.
UN up in this bitch.
Bloggers without borders.
White privilege delegates.
Generally ethnic general assembly.
Yo Richie Rich.
If you want to put these boys in the canon.
And have them blast off like some pause-worthy firework.
You know who to holla at.
Been had selvedge fuses.
Been had Bin’s Bic.
But where the fuck was a blogger you ask?
You want the G’d up true Bollywood story?
Was in the cut lookin’ mad fresco.
Raphael since day one.
Great master from the jump.
Manifesting human grandeur.
Fathering pupils in the workshop.
All that shit.
Nerds taking street shots.
While I’m painting the School of Athens.
Stanza della sprezzatura.
Peep the tribunal.
Dat boy Daiki in a polka dot robe with a finger to the heavens.
McNasty next to him.
Palm to the ground.
The eternal debate.
Abstract angelic Forms versus the particulars of EVAs on concrete.
The philosophers of our time.
Candide & Co.
The age of entitlement.
See, my life is simple.
I tend to my blog.
And stay away from the three great evils.
Fuck that shit.
Not even trying here.
Fuck any kind of pedigree we had going.
Dialing this one in.
Paint by numbers with this shit.
Lookbook A B C’s.
O is for Orange.
Saw the O face bros making OJ last season.
So we added a banana and a green apple.
Oh shit blogger.
Our BDs just jumped up a price point.
Cause we mad fruity.
C is for carpet.
Racking our brains.
And our inspiration folders.
Who’s floor game is on point?
Shit son, you member when we smoked that droll up with Coggs?
Oh fuck man.
He rolled his dank with Penguin classic papes.
Kush wrapped in Cannery Row.
Told classic tales of sit downs with with OGs.
Wondering how much more he could have learned.
If he wasn’t on The Lean when they were dropping knowledge like that.
But shit son.
His crib’s on that Persian tip.
Let’s drop down some carpet.
Buyers gonna blow us up so hard bro.
S is for stacks.
Stacks on stacks on stacks.
Mad literature, son.
Cause we deep.
Deep inside that e-tail fallopian.
L is for Ladder
Have you dudes even heard of Brim City?
Didn’t think so.
Cause we didn’t find this shit in some back alley.
H is for hammer.
On behalf of Justice.
I let the steel speak.
About a ton.
We fucking merked this shit so hard.
I think the model just threw up in his mouth a little.
99 used to say you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.
Blindfolded wrist shots from center ice.
Raining into the stands.
Uh well-a well-a well-a Ugh.
Tell me more.
Tell me more.
Err’body back from camp.
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 ass uptown shit?
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 bullshit.
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.
Sometimes I just want some crusty ass 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 shitty life.
And tell me.
"This is your story."
But until then.
On that new new.
Couldn’t afford Celine.
So I ball hard on my carpus game.
OG charms up on my wristicles.
That shit bray.
Everyone needs a little support now and again.
RSI from all the RT’s.
Can I trade you?
This one’s shaped like Woost God’s koi tat.
Where the fuck is my passion fruit lean?
I’m fighting my way to the pinnacle.
One round at a time.
Fuck 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.