Flossing the neck lamps.
Tramp built guillotine sat.
Glamour daemons anguished upon their fishing from the lists of dark moon rituals.
Calculator buns, fresh from the oven, ready to eat upon their half of the second street, horns and a coven whom hath been gathered.
Onion, Top Hats, Potato, Coal and Hatred used to summon the Captain of the great flush
He’s a tough nut to crack, even standing overdrawn by the rain next to a tobacconist. Muttering sweet hatred into the street corner, hoping your pity is worth another box of dime store magic.
Ever the half-life, shirt stained by ignoble truth he watched them, and all who come to pass. Daemons pay him little if any attention. Go about their endless quest to hear the fires of hell just a bit longer.
Shagging off the last of the most important smoke of the day, sagging and calving edgy cardboard boxes covered in blankets that keeps just enough of the downpour out. Aqualung is muttered, as he slenderly steps into the Dreamlands.