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About Bristol

So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

Rita Morgan

But then, mid-song, my guitar string snaps. Like, seriously? I’m standing there, frozen. But I can’t let it ruin the moment. I just laugh it off, make a joke about it, and the crowd loves it. I’m like, “Guess I’m not that sweet after all!”

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