Billy Boy

  Gripped in a vice, the dispostion of the cities fine new erection. All to obvious... Relinquish the laughter oh larval assylum, you callow grubs and cacoons.

 "Stuck and torn", the feather boa bitch says as he waves his baton. Solitary providence driven by the beat of a drum. Never mind the crosseyed gas huffer parade. Sarcasm revised and fit for you. A pastel green mother pill long and reserved for a few. That is not so "fine".