Sentry 'papes drilling on what's what in the Lowcrown. Sayings on the kid-devils' grounded in Midcrown's sewer stream, their stink lost to shit. Oh, and the sweet twist jutting sexual every other 'pape this end from Wednesday.
Racehorse down, sugar down, Sweet Cally May Cigarettes up a dozen and spurring numbers round the black hats' heads. Love a digit or two myself but Black Hattin' ain't my score. Or a score of any other Harrison for that matter: alive or grounded.