Herr Wheatstraw threads the needle on multiple topics.

The true story goes that Bill had forgotten the words and ad-libbed, "I know, I know, I know, I know..."

"Hey, I better leave the young thang alone."

Meanwhile, Herr Wheatstraw, the pimp crane, in a vacant lot, dissheveled, be-pink-ed, discried and bark-spangled.

I say, maybe, Lucius, not an expert, but one of the same malaise, sharing notes and not otherwise spurning, past hoping in general, for success.  I cleave the matter so, and disseminate that we are, of the same stripe, like the black cat in the Pepe cartoons, striped and thought something different, and taken to, taken up, and other wise, even asked.

And that's how vampires work, Cheever.  They knock on your window in some friendly state of dress, some friendly comportment, and ask to make interruption, taking to even the carpet on the floor as some new novelty that might make them, well, less bored and tired of infinite existence.

Did you leave the young thing alone, Bill?

No, she wanted my money.

Guess that makes her a hoe, don't it?

And my ass ain't Santa Claus.

Did you ever see the evening crimson over Mckinnon?  I bet you ain't, cause you don't act like you ever did much beyond Disney Plus, unsexxed yourself in secret with some blunt little tool, and in the end its opposite, cause you unsexxed your familiars and you are in fact

the blunt little tool.

She had some s-kin in the game though, and I betting my pistols, telling her all the while, pushing them across the gaming table, telling what I would do to her before I fell asleep.

I'll drop a house on her like its damn Wizard of Oz.  Remember the witch, the Kansas iteration where she's riding the bike?