Dancin on this fool

I was gettin low low

When I looked across the room

I saw this **** cholo

He was all up on this girl

But his body sayin no no

Until he looked at me

He was G walkin real slow

Put his hands on mine

My body's feelin his flow

Dancin so serene

We was goin toe ta toe

Feelin so ****

Like a strippa gettin so low

He wants ta take me home

So I told my baby let's go

The way he kissed my neck

My heart was feelin like whoa

He put a spell on me

Now all I want is him yo

Sit down children and listen to this story
its all about the Cholos, who live their lives poorly
They mob in the street
They jam salsa beats
Plus those ******* laced my kush with angel dust.
******* Cholos.

Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory*

Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul  into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: *música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.

The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.

When is it that you've had enough
when you can't tell methane from Mexico
and the bruises on your knees
resemble the hickies
from the drug dealer boyfriend
you left last summer

I remember him very well
and picture his blurred face
Looking at me longingly
from between my legs

he was sweaty
and I was vulnerable
and he used every inch of my body
to convince me of his desire

but I dont mind
and an certainly not shameful
of that curiosity I developed
for telling skunk from week
and the admiration
and ****** frustration
for the cholo type of boy

sometimes I miss you
but maybe those are nights
that I'm not getting any

He grew up old school times have changed. When he was young they told him date your own race but he was his own person. He wasn't into the cholo life he grew his hair and educated himself. Times have changed back in the days you worked at it to be in a relationship. Now a days women give it away being promiscuous expecting respect or like it with be more than just a one night stand. He never said I love you unless he meant it and observed her actions how can a person say I love you but be all up on another person. Most people play the game but and up getting played. being the fool because all their shady acts catch up to them blow up in their face. Times have changed from child to adult what was cool is no more or what was a hit is now a classic. Things come and go in the blink of an eye another trend to replace the old one.