Yeah yeah fuck em

Everyone knows about the cops. Jail was never fun but it may have been more fun than the persistent hounding of the posturban police who haunted our childhoods. New York City's police department is so specialized we get to have the neighborhood cops coexist with officers of various enforcement; narcotics, homicide, fraud, etc. Well it was the neighborhood officers at our door last night, complaining our bands were disturbing this residential zone, the bass echoing off all the empty factories and public housing buildings, each answering with its own woven rhythms and beats.
They shut us down for our safety, and for our guests, who may have been followed to the subway station and robbed, the captain said. I had to stand guard ensuring no bottles left the doorway, thinking about the hat circulating for the bands' collection, and hoping the interior doors stayed closed. But these constables were only interested in noise, and never lifted their noses. The volume down, the apartment emptied, they went on their cruising way. The liquor gone, our friends yet arrived. The futon trampled with footprints. There. Behind the microwave, above the fridge. A bag of food; chips, cheetos.
We ate and smoked and shaked hands and danced a little more. They say fuck the police. They say they aint too smart. I remember a gentleman said sometimes the cops come and fuck with you. Sometimes they do and they dont.