The Club
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fred oakley's is the roomy cell of st. jerome sledge. the remainder of a whole range of things back off in the country. scarring was likely if you couldn't dance. everybody knew that someday they would blow up in a factory in arkadelphia or camden if things worked out. we lit the mill quarters up like a christmas tree. the problem of amusement and black reconstruction. new move broke old names and said them off musically. vodka in a can of countrytime. scuffed up new tomatoes just now blushing on the bottom like a star. just slice 'em, put some salt and pepper on 'em, let 'em sit. I love to dance. I love to cut somebody when I'm in love. my baby upsets me. Back to Contents |
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