“Baby, save your apologies,
I just gotta goooo….
He is messed up by the life-long patience and excitement he was investing in this thriller.
This trip to The Middle East, all of his few savings were turned to Dirhams but now it appears to be a question of whether the dare-devilling is worth it.
“Whatever happens…
Don’t you let go of my hand.”
Harms squeezes every line of lyrics to keep his mood up.
He hears toilet flushing, Tiktok flash-banging videos in Central Asia accents, and then again, it’s a killing peacefulness type of process:
The calm before the storm before the calm before the storm.
In the meantime, Miss Abbasi Barnes went strolling in the lounge for Mister Entrepreneur. Marco Rossi, the official name that for some reason cannot be ever called separately.
A Campari bottle on the table, 2/3 have gone down the throat of what seemed to be some Latino models. The 3 of them.
All black dressed, honey tanned skin, and soft sophisticated lyrics of seduction defused with the same perfume, the men’s classic — Polo.
What a sabotage is running out of its luck?!
Miss Abbasi Barnes, striding purposefully to mess up the party…
Her torquoize pony take dancing tango with her small nose that breathes heavily and the clicking of her highheels is she attempts to rhyme with 50 Cents’ Outta Control entry tireless beat — hinting for trouble, but the good type.
