The exlax lines the dogbowl
Chief runs-no-more is full of ash and broken dreams again. The dawn is baring down hard like a nun in a blender full of piss and whiskey. crack open a warm budweiser and rehearse the escape plan. But why all the toilet paper? Flee you bastard, they called last night and want your head flee god damn it! Persona non grata. Weird memories and assuredly stranger forgotten ones surfacing like a stranger in a bar somewhere where smoke rings form a noose around the stool pigeon with bad credit and bum rap. And there they go again, those bastards with the hats. People sleeping on the floor and i can't explain why the sun always seems to melt in my hand. Maybe just one more beer after i roll up this smoke.