Saturday, August 8, 2009

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

Good friends on the Rock,
always meet again.

Above the Horn.

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