Poem: A Happy Memory of Working Hard and Being Paid Accordingly
This one time, back with the Irish band, we played at at the anniversary of some bike gang.
They paid us in rolls of twenties.
They said lewd things to the violin player.
One time she was sawing away, and a beer-gut biker-guy, his helmet on, his chin strap swaying, his tummy wobbling out from under his Motorhead t-shirt, shouted, “faster! Go faster!”
She ra…
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