Queens Cugine

Hair greased back, shirt unbuttoned, gold chains around your neck
Been driving dad’s Monte Carlo since the Trans Am wreck
It’s Friday night and Paled’s Club is where the action’s at
You beep the hom “Hold on, Vinny – The Mets are up at bat!”
Dad’s bowling ball gets moved to back so Sal can sit up front
He walks like he’s Cugine Ad-Rock – he’s just a little runt
Paled’s Club ain’t open yet you cruise Queens Boulevard
There’s high school girls at the mall; this shouldn’t be too hard

Roll down the window
“Yo! Baby, ‘Sup?”
“Shut up, Guido”
“You’re lucky I’m dressed up.”

On the floor at Paled’s Club you do the cugine dance
Some airhead girl’s impressed with you; this is your big chance
You buy her drinks and lines of coke, you really make a fuss
“After on, you want a ride home? Sal could take the bus.”
She’s coked up and intoxicated – Yeah man, you’ll get laid
Didn’t practice safe sex so you contracted AIDS
Laid up in the hospital your cugine days are past
You wake up and you wonder “Will this day be my last?”

“I just had bad luck
I guess it’s my turn.”
You stupid Guido
You’ll never learn