66th Street by Atmosphere
think it was a Sunday, sometime in January,
I could be wrong and I guess it isn't necessary,
But I remember that the ground was made of snow,
And if you went outside you better take your coat.
I must have been 19 years old I had a cashier job at a convenience store,
Workin' the counter makin' minimum dough,
Sellin' discount smokes to the neighborhood folk.
I didn't pay much thought to his ski mask,
Its Minnesota man your face'll freeze fast,
But I bet that I looked sorta dumb when I first caught sight of his bright orange gun.
There I am adrenalin high and trying to decide how I feel about his right hand,
Is that a-god damn-wait a minute, it is a flare gun,
And guess where he's aimin' it?
You probably ain't here to win the lottery,
So you obviously gotta be robbin' me.
He nodded his head so I opened up the till,
Grabbed the paper bag for the money 'cause I know the drill.
I handed him the cash and the food stamps,
And he just stood there lookin' all confused and I'm thinkin',
Yo why the fuck ain't he movin'?
Come on crazy white boy don't do somethin' stupid.
That bag is worth maybe two thirty,
Not enough for you to pull the trigger back and burn me,
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