like a recorder . . . and when you hit the prostate pearl sharp diamonds gather in the golden lad balls inexorable as a kidney stone. . . . Sorry I had to kill you. . . .
The old grey mare aint what she used to be. . . . Cant run down an audience . . . got to bring down that house on the wing, run or sit. . . . Like an old lion took bad with cavities he need that amident toothpaste keep a feller biting fresh at all times. . . . Them old lions shit sure turn boyeater. . . . And who can blame them, boys being so sweet so cold so fair in St. James Infirmary??
Now, son, don’t you get rigor mortis on me. Show respect for the aging prick. . . . You may be a tedious old fuck yourself some day. . . . Oh, uh; I guess not. . . . You have, like Housman’s barefoot shameless catamite The Congealed Shropshire Ingenue set your fleet foot on the silo of change. . . . But you cant kill those Shropshire boys . . . been hanged so often he resist it like a gonococcus half castrate with pencillin rallies to a hideous strength and multiplies geometric. . . . So leave us cast a vote for decent acquittal and put an end to those beastly exhibitions for which the sheriff levy a pound of flesh.”
Sheriff: ‘T il lower his pants for a pound, folks. Step right up. A serious and scientific exhibit concerning the locality of the Life Center. This character has nine inches, ladies and gentlemen, measure them yourself inside. Only one pound, one queer three dollar bill to see a young boy come three times at least—I never demean myself to process a eunuch—com pletely against his will. When his neck snaps sharp, this character will shit-sure come to rhythmic attention and spurt it out all over you.”