God damn the streets around my house, in my small southern city. Coffin nails to wild ambition, a muzzle for the bark of youth.
Saw a lady at the spirits store asking for captain morgan with a baby on her hip and I thought, wonder what captain would taste like mixed with baby formula? Funny story bout the happenstance at which I arrived at this spiritual clusterfuck. I had to make a run to the conjoined liberty inn/ spirits store for my manager. See, he's not quite old enough to buy his own liquer but he's plenty old enough to run pj's pizza place. Very respectable guy. He's got his boots laced well and keeps his nose clean and his belly filled with liquid courage.
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