The Writing's On the Wall
And but Tweed was all like, "Yo, you gotta hear this shit -- this shit is stupid!" And Dig's hanging on to his every word, like "Yeah man, give it to me," and I'm just hanging low, leaning over the bar, staring at all these bottles of all this Blue Curacao shit and thinking, man should I do another shot? And Tweed's jabbering away about some cat he knows, "This cap from East New York, this goomba..." But I'm lost, 'cause by this time I'm three sheets to the wind shitfaced.