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About Spanish Town

So, picture this—I’m sittin’ in some dive bar, sippin’ cheap whiskey, and this gal walks in, total pro, y’know? Sex escort, loud and proud, heels clickin’ like a drumbeat. I’m like, “Well, chaos reigns, dunnit?”—straight outta the movie. She’s got this smirk, like she knows every dirty secret in the room. Made me happy, mate—someone ownin’ their gig, no shame. But then, ugh, this sleazy bloke starts hasslin’ her, and I’m fumin’—wanted to smash my guitar over his head. “The world’s gone mad,” I mutter, another *Werckmeister* line, coz it fits, yeah?

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I finish up with the tree, and I’m feelin’ good. I climb down, and the vendor’s still fumin’. I help him clean up a bit, and he’s like, “Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.” I’m thinkin’, “Nah, just an arborist tryin’ to survive.”

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