Looking down at the fly the old boy gently knelt the edge of his rubbery crutch stick next to the thing and edged it further towards him until he flew into the light. Laughter from the greatest depths. "What a little human being he is. But he is still a human being!"
A little further down past nervous smiles of goddog I need a wee. At the same moment a small boy all alone in the world for a second leans defiantly out of his age bracket and pants onto the bubbling ash of the leafy suburb and spreads like a born quadrapod. The cherub spouts to point perfection proportionate to the pressure of the gush. Only in the smallest acts can true perception actually be achieved, he knows this ballet. And with a large degree of consciouslessness. It is outside the Tory office which pretends it's the core of a village green. Full of sickly politeness of an imaginary aristocracy. Younguns too eager to answer the senile. They think they are the same as us, and maybe they are, and we are deceiving ourselves with worrying about the poor. Come on we belong to roughly the same club. We both lead decent lives, don't we? Trickling down vomit on the hall of mirrors is as acrid as Westminster. Flying south East aimlessly an Irish codger with a wet todger proclaims himself lost. Well that is Camberwell Green right there.
I'm looking for England but i can't find it.. This isn't England, we're in Lagos. That sounds fun. You've got curly hair from the africans. In eye shot an actual sub saharan has also pissed herself and has managed like a slug to wedge tissue between her wet leggined cheeks. Handbag sprawling. animatronic arms motion towards the jolly jollof box of life.
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