They don’t take laughter like they take shots of Stoli on a humid Saturday night in the middle of a martini bar that charges ten times the cost of manufacturing. Garments too loose (or just tight enough) stick to their ribs like Dum-Dum wrappers to melted lollipops in cherry, root beer, or mystery flavors. Their repetitive method of debauchery mechanizes the caw-caw pesterings of insomniac crows.
Come the first blush of inebriated dawn, they will parley while guzzling liquid gold, pouring one out for deceased comrades; stepping in cash-puddles.
The souls that can’t be purchased can be sold beneath soles.
Some might argue that everything is for sale; anything is negotiable. Perhaps I own the minority opinion on this matter…
Thank you for visiting.