| Eating a po boy and Mother’s next to a photo of a young Riddick Bowe
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| How can you look at a young Riddick Bowe
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| Without looking deep down into your soul
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| I always take the table next to the photo of a young Riddick Bowe
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| If the table at Mother’s is available
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| I think about him digging deep against Evander Holyfield
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| And how he only came home with a silver at the Olympics
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| When he was going for the gold
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| And the low blows he took from Golota that retired him
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| I picture him in a hospital bed, laying there, healing up
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| Then I drifted off to other thoughts, walking down North to South Peters
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| You know, under the freeway, in the gentrified Arts District
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| Yeah, down South Peters, I cross over to Constance
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| And take a right on Race and sit at the cafe all alone
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| Checking my phone, checking in on my sister
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| Or texting someone or another
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| I only got a few friends, plus my father and my mother
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| So if you see me sitting there alone and you recognize me
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| It’s not a bother to say «hi»
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| But please, for no longer than five minutes, please no longer
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| Cause deep down, I’m listening to myself, street roamer
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| It ain’t nothing personal, at heart I’m just a loner
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| Cause I’m always hurting a little and doing some soul searching
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| If you’re ain’t hurting a little bit
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| Then you’re probably ain’t doing much soul searching
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| If everything in your life is okay, then thank you for sharing
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| But for me it’s not exactly that way
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| If you’re jumping up and down with how okay you are
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| I don’t buy it for a second, the world is just too fucked up
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| And I’m too fucking smart for you
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| I know better, I know better, I know better, I know better
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| You show me a big tough guy and I’ll show you a little bedwetter
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| I’m watching American Bigfoot, it takes place in southeast Ohio
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| It was funny for thirty minutes, then you called me
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| You said it’s raining back in San Francisco
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| I said, «It's raining down here in New Orleans too, you know»
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| I looked outside and yeah, it’s raining, the tourists have left
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| So I make a reservation at Delmonico
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| Honestly, there are moments when I’m totally at peace
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| Like right now, when I’m walking down the street
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| I just tune out all the bitches and the headaches that be pestering me
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| And now I’m walking down Magazine down to Constantinople
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| Looking for John Kennedy Toole’s house
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| I’m gonna take me a photo of his house
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| That’s gonna be my project for the day
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| And send the photo to my friend who loves his book
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| It’s good to have a hope for the day, even in the simplest way
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| A lamp broke this morning, yeah, my lamp is shattered
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| They were coming to inspect my windows
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| When I wasn’t expecting them and they caught me off guard
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| I reached for my lamp, the most beautiful lamp I ever had
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| I misgauged the distance and my hardwood floor
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| Was covered in lampshade glass and it made me so sad
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| And I thought of all the songs I’d written
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| Under the light of that art deco lamp
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| And all the books I’ve read
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| Under the light of that beautiful art deco lamp
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| And all the love I’ve made
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| Under the light of the art deco lamp
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| Shattered because they came to inspect my windows
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| That it turns out had already been inspected
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| Young Riddick Bowe
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| And what can you do
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| Lamps break and I bitched about it long enough
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| I called my sister and my girl and they reminded me
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| How people lose their entire homes in fires and floods
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| They were right, it was a petty thing to complain about
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| In the grand scheme of things
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| But it was the first possession I put in my house in New Orleans
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| I remember when it was just that lamp and a mattress on the floor
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| And you and me and I get stuck in the mud
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| And get overly sentimental and feeling down about things
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| My girlfriend said, «You need to get out of bed today
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| And have some kind of goal,» and I said, «Okay»
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| And I ate a grilled shrimp po boy
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| That was next to the photo of young Riddick Bowe |