Like an inner-city Robert Frost stopping by the hoods on a snowy evening, Dujeous deliver a reflective Thanksgiving tale of sorts, painting a portrait of a cold Autumn in NYC…taking his gloves off to burn a tree, layered in “three pairs of socks…anything but flip-flops”…the pilgrim delivering these verses has a long ways to go as he wipes snot on his sleeve, heading home dreaming of Jack, turkey, brussel sprouts and yams…I’m down with that, just hold the yams and the line about “Season of the vic” and it’s all good…
Happy Whatever to you and yours, from URB
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