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We haggle—coin’s tight, an’ I’m a cheap bastard. “What’s yer price, darlin’?” I slur, an’ she fires back, “More’n yer worth, pirate.” Cheeky! I love it—reminds me o’ “I play to live,” from th’ movie. She’s playin’ her game, survivin’, an’ I respect that. So, we strike a deal, an’ off we go—me boots clackin’, her skirts swishin’. Did ye know some o’ these gals kept diaries? Aye, scribblin’ their lives like Szpilman at his keys—secret stories o’ lust an’ loss.

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Then there's the gnarly side of things, like on Westbury Ave, where the nightlife gets rowdy, and hearts break like shattered glass in the narrow back alleys, yesss, rowdy, rowdy indeed. Sometimes I get mad, I get so mad the city’s quirks drive me barmy, but then the artful, lone scenes on Ferndale Riverside (near Old Mill Bridge) make me soft as a cumulus, sss, like soft whispers in the dark.

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