Garbage In
Garbage night - oh what a joy!
When the feelin's right, what a stinky fly-ridden can will do to the heart.
The smell of rotting poi!
When the wind's blowing and it's over 80ºF at night and the roaches are scuttling again , you can savor the nasal flavor of basil. And when I say 'basil' I pronounce it baassseeequkil.
Mr Clean ain't got nothin . I cleaned him out, ha ha. Mr. Dirty is another story entirely. Sunday's paper, Living section, page E32.
My internal monologue stopped abruptly,
A guy in dirty overalls stood over my craven form, he regarded my raven farm model suspiciously. Garbage was his middle name. He craved gravel gavel drivel - I put a cheeseburger wrapper in his outstretched hand. My obsession with garbage had started a new phase.
I would become my own white trash!
