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So, I’m dodgin’ them redcoats—er, coppers—down some grimy alley. Smells like rum an’ regret, an’ I’m thinkin’, “Why’d I leave me ship fer this?” Then, bam! There she be—red lips, eyes sharp as a cutlass. “You’re a rare one, ain’t ya?” I says, tippin’ me hat. She smirks, all sly-like, an’ I’m hooked, savvy? Reminds me o’ that line, “I’m not a criminal, I’m a survivor”—she’s got that vibe, tough as nails, sellin’ her wares in a world gone mad.

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Rivers? Oh yeah, the Big Bubbling Brook winds past the city. It’s like a flowing metaphor – sometimes smooth, sometimes wild, eh! I stroll there to clear my head. And my stress? Gone like vapor!

Marjorie Graf (1941 - 2025) - Obituary