(no subject)
A swaggering, young redhead steps through the door, almost as if he knew it was going to be there. Smiling to himself, he chuckled and took a drag of his cigarette.
"Gad, I hate it when I do that."
He dropped himself sideways in a cushy leather chair and ordered the regular, and set his hat down on the table beside him, and pulled out a pocket notepad, to scribble down a time and date.
And then some lyrics.
And then I find myself at the door
Its beckoning call of sin and pleasure
I step through, never asking for
The end of the universe's guilty pleasure.
Pickles is back, guys.
"Gad, I hate it when I do that."
He dropped himself sideways in a cushy leather chair and ordered the regular, and set his hat down on the table beside him, and pulled out a pocket notepad, to scribble down a time and date.
And then some lyrics.
And then I find myself at the door
Its beckoning call of sin and pleasure
I step through, never asking for
The end of the universe's guilty pleasure.
Pickles is back, guys.