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I finally met someone with honor and dignity in this forsaken and godless city. He lives in one of the underground horseless chariots at night, the "subway," and during the day he is a pan-handler with a talent for music. The so-called "artistic" New Yorkers could not hope to ever match his skill. He drums on what is called a plastic bucket, if you must know, one that was originally meant for pickles. They are songs of war that he plays, songs of glory.
I plan to recruit him into my new army. He will make a fine warrior, an honorary Myrmidon.
The pigs soon began to hassle him, though, before we could speak more. He had no choice but to obey their weak wills because they were three, and he was only one, and they were with weapons, while he was without. I do not understand this. Why are the weak so strong in this city and the strong so weak? It is stupid.
I plan to recruit him into my new army. He will make a fine warrior, an honorary Myrmidon.
The pigs soon began to hassle him, though, before we could speak more. He had no choice but to obey their weak wills because they were three, and he was only one, and they were with weapons, while he was without. I do not understand this. Why are the weak so strong in this city and the strong so weak? It is stupid.