Socialites

Socialites those was good days. sneakin' out the bedroom window tryin' harder not to wrinkle our frocks than not to wake momma runnin' down the dusty road with pointy-toe pumps in tote hopin' we didn't miss too much of the party. greeted at the end of the road by three cats in they daddy's shiny black Bonneville waitin' to give us a ride. they'd be justa skinnin' and grinnin' thinkin' they might just get some ass before the night was through. some nights, if them cats was slick enough, they would. we'd Slide all night at the juke joint. eatin' pickled pigfeet and gettin' high off of stump-hole liquor. tellin' lies 'bout how we was gonna go to New York one day and how we was gonna go to Coney Island for hotdogs at Nathan's. and then go over to Queens to find us a soul food joint for a taste of collards and cornbread. from there, we would just follow the crowd to Harlem and take us a place in line waitin' our turn to bow at the feet of Apollo, god of the Chitlin Circuit. soon, he would entertain us with his dukes and his queens, and his godfathers and, boy! that palace would be smokin'! 'course all eyes would be on us- the socialites from the sticks- all dolled up in our fitted skirts with can-can slips underneath and the cats in they pencil suits and wing-tips and all us thinkin' if only the niggas back home could see us now- snappin' and tappin' in Harlem with dukes, and queens, and godfathers.