Did I remember my love shot this year? Oh, who am I kidding?
They said he died of a broken heart, unable to work in his beloved New York City. The coroner seemed to agree. He ruled it a heart attack. The cops, of course, were suspicious. Cynical. My friend, who had been with him that afternoon, mentioned Puerto Rican girls and an eightball.
The revenge of the buffalo and the snowy egret creep through the land of the unwashed and the unwanted. I do my version of praying in the Church of the Living Swing. With radio on life support, it feels like I should be wringing my hands. Instead, I find myself wanting to see it put out of its misery.
Hot dog, buddy, buddy.