boheme

What the hell are you laughing at, eh sister? Huh?

Crazy idea. Let's hitch a ride on a semi carrying Pepperidge Farms smoke sausage. They'll never suspect two wild bastards hiding out in a carriage of salted flesh. The driver's name is Pelican. His high school buddies called him that because he always pecked at his meals like a curious pelican. He's a good sport. Filled with road tales, Black & Mild smoke, and sugar free cough drop wrappers. One could make a papier mache out of ther remnants of his habits. This lunger of a smoked sausage traffiker is heading to Tupelo. God Help Tupelo you know. We could get married there. Close one of the run down bars with our rendition of Stevie Wonder's "Golden Lady". The grinnin' and scaled bitch running the place is named Shirley Jo. Certainly leaning more towards the Joe, judging on her tire chained mug. She christened this seeping den Shirley Jo's Rumpus Room. Collapsing wall panels and collapsing spirits abound. Paradise, Boheme.

Sometimes my imagination runs wild when I listen to Tom Waits' "Ol 55" You'll have to forgive me.