When You Come to the City

Track off of Alias Punch album#1, Alias Punch. This song is about Orlando.

You jump off the plane,
Just before it lands,
Air-conditioned crowds cheer for you,
From palm tree stands,

Make your way through baggage,
And sweat through inspection,
Food is thrown at you,
From every direction,

Walk out the doors,
Breath in the cement air,
Pick up your rental car,
From the desk-riding bear,

Jump on Semoran,
Little Puerto Rico,
Where the horns don't honk,
They ask, "Que pasa, Chico?"

Gas keeps on dripping,
Fast food's greasy all night,
You reach in your pockets,
But, comfort's nowhere in sight,

Close your peripherals, head north,
Past the school of starry-eyed kids,
In jars of selfish dreams,
Shut by parents with lids,

Head west on Aloma,
Smell Park Avenue,
It reeks of yuppie students,
and pretentious fools,

Big-headed hipsters,
Pose as struggling artists,
While wine and cheese cafes,
Hide Halloween harlots,

Organic food abortionists,
Self-loving vegan smarts,
In big neon warehouses,
Advertising art,

Watch the pretty, laughing monkeys,
Spend money on sand,
while just in their shadows,
Lies a village ghetto land,

Roll down Orange,
Tall buildings, Skyscrapers,
Big city thinkers,
New York City fakers,

Clubs on every corner,
Children full of alcohol,
And the Midnight Beggars,
Beg them all for something small,

Construction's always buzzing,
Lights are rarely green,
You get pulled over every night,
Because the cop don't like what he sees,

Go past the giant banks,
and the intimidation stations,
Hit up Colonial,
Little Vietnam Nation,

You've got Soba Noodle,
And psychics galore,
Asian celebrity posters,
And animated porn,

A lunatic veteran,
Is strung on something you've never heard,
He yells at himself,
And scares away park bench birds,

East and 408,
North now 417,
Meet the college football junkies,
Hyped on pride and coffee beans,

Black and gold banners,
Hang at every supermarket,
While flashing highway signs,
Scream, "Stadium!" and, "Park it!"

Apartment after apartment,
Is woken in the night,
By speeding semi-sobers,
In streetcars and street bikes,

Well, perhaps you will find,
Maybe you will see,
In this big dirty stink hole,
A place to keep clean,

But, if you are hungry,
And you're looking at this melting pot,
I hope you brought a sandwich,
Because this stew's gone rot.