Why does Motown depress me?
Or does it only make me mellow on a Saturday night
in a small town in northeast Michigan,
where it's cold enough to see your breath
if there were any reason to breathe.
They're dancing in the street, because Martha said they were,
but they roll 'em up when the sun goes down around here.
Stiff as a board
and bored as a stiff
poetic justice on a night like this.
And I bet I've spent more time on Eight Mile than he has
and it isn't as ghetto chic as he'd have you believe.
It's just dank, dirty, and Detroit.
The three D's of alliteration
and if you can't have a little ration,
then fuck 'ya.