I am not the breadwinner of my stomach
I am not the breadwinner of my stomach.
Who are you? The boffo mistro merchantile exchange?
Hear me! Between the lettuce leaves and hearts of palm.
Oil for the potato-rich sand-craven earth-warm fecal-matter merry messanger.
This. This. Is Sinner-ama. This is butternut harpsicord. This is the better batter. This is the night of the afterhour harpoon-piercing whaling ship. This is the escape clause. This, here is the way out. Follow me. Come. Watch your head.