Spike Lee - f** You New York from "The 25th Hour" lyrics

(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written f** You!) Monty: Yeah, f** you, too. Monty's Reflection: f** me? f** you! f** you and this whole city and everyone in it. f** the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. f** squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a f**ing job! f** the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in f**ing training. Slow the f** down! f** the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. f** the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? f** the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little gla**es, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you f**ing came from! f** the black-hatted Cha**idim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! f** the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother f**ers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron a**holes to jail for f**ing life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that sh**? Give me a f**ing break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom! f** the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst f**in' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good. f** the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. f** the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! f** the uptown brothers. They never pa** the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the f** on! f** the corrupt cops with their an*s violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! f** the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. f** the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, f** JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in f**in Otisville, Jay! f** Osama Bin Laden, Al-Qaeda, and backward-a**, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist a**holes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two who*es roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish a**! f** Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent. f** Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's a**. f** Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. f**ing b**h. f** my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers. f** this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to f**in ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place. Monty: No. No, f** you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb f**! (He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)