Lobsterfest and half full Conch Trains.

0658/2005 84/92 Blue Skies ESE 10/15 75%H.

DOGS 9370 7047 9560 1462. LIBOR .046.

Greetings from the Hill.

A gorgeous day in paradise...

if one were deaf.

The walking talking fools,

idiots riding mopeds,

drunks on bicycles,

"Fucking asshole tourists,

too drunk to drive back

and too cheap to rent a room,"

rants the madone,

pissed with daytrippers,

passed out crashed

on someone's porch.

How wonderful to take a drive

in an american sportster,

Mustang limited edition for whom,

certainly Steve Bing and Jay Leno,

collectors of the rare

and men of the dare...

americans who share

the spirit of freedom.

"Hofuckingho, dream on oldman,

you haven't had a licence

since Ford was President,"

mocks the madone,

"Barefoot Jack in paradise."

Reading the Fed reports this week

and wondering about the governors

of the economic balance that

levels inflation and employment

and promotes prosperity...

"The Twelve Heads of Duncedom,"

interrupts the cynic knowing

the language of Fedspeak,

the terminology of Greenspan,

the weepings of Bernanke,

the changling lies

of Geithner.

"Love Lane...", gushes a drunken twat,

dreaming of something other

than than her trailer park,

a baldheaded biker shuffling

beside her in sandals.

Walking to Duval Street and the past,

with nothing but memories

and no credit cards.

"Paradise ain't cheap,"

laughs Tony with another fourpack.

"I'm off to the beach,"

loading up the bike,

his van parked below.

An interesting week in the world,

Bubba Bill saving Asshole Al,

who should have been president

were 'it' not been for Crooked George

and the Harris Connection...

would the Miami condos be empty,

should derivatives have become

the diet of banking,

the dessert of Goldie Sox.

"Would, could and should,

if the SEC had not allowed

on 4 4 2004 permitted

bank leverage to 30/1 giving

Paulson the store of DEBT

to Wall Street wholesalers,"

fumes the madone

pissed with lies.

Dear friend Barry back from SF,

returning to Oshawa,

the home of Camaros,

one wonders where the Mustang

is built.

"IT's all about corruption,

wormfucks and conchslugs

thinking no one watches,

no one knows about the ways

of inbred retards with credit cards,

the cock of the rock

and his football flock,"

snorts the madone

walking to the dock

at four o'clock.

"Hey, oldman, have a beer

and forget about the shit,

come take a ride

in my foreign machine,"

laughs Doctor Coy

returning from

Bagdad.

Good friends on the Rock,

always meet again.

Above the Horn.