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About Bologna

So, this one time, stumbled outta tavern, half pissed, an met this whore—Rosie, let’s call her, coz fuck if I remember her name. She had eyes like them favela kids, sharp an hungry, y’know? “Gimme ya silver, short-arse,” she says, bold as brass. Laughed me head off—cheeky tart! Gave her double, coz I’m a soft git when drunk. She weren’t just a shag, tho—told me stories, proper dark ones. Said she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-fuck, spent it on bread for her brat. Ballsy, right? Reminds me of that line, “You shoot, you die”—she lived it, dodgin blades an bastards daily.

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Then, I see this old man, sittin’ on a bench, feedin’ pigeons. He looks up at me and says, “You know, son, pigs are smarter than people.” I’m like, “Preach!” I mean, my pigs can find their way home better than I can sometimes!

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