Why did you die on me? Where are all the good guys gone?
In memory you live on.
Some more or less good remain.
The rest give me a pain.
Oh God above, Hellfire and brimstone would be a change.
Your cat has mange.
Brain transplants all around and replacement hearts, send them please.
I’m on my knees.
Where are the trees?
In times like these.
We need performing fleas.
I liked your line, A. A., about someone speaking like a duchess in a poorhouse.
Jazz music in the whorehouse.
Still the Sun shines, sometimes.
10th May, 2017