Stuff for PBS Masterpiece or the Wolverine guy.

I was thinking in my diseased brain that I had never really gotten into Les Miserables, with its awkward music and so fourthce, how he had, that John, nicked a crust of bread to feed the street sitter girl and her little squeak.

And he, and in turn, his jailer, sang fruity little hawkword songs.

Anne Hataweg was fine, and maybe, some golfer would buy her an SUV or something.  Some spicy chips or something.

If she put out good, or whatever the dude asked asked her to do, you know, the Tribal Carlton, or what have you, cock-sided little eyes, or whatever, of a diseased turn of mind to put something askew, kind of as it was, John sprited into the clink, over that, made as it were, a "regular".

And singing to his jailer.

Sort of an awkward street walker, lurking sort of youngish female, to wit, some business owner to give her a sub-let, or something, put food in the gullet, or whatever it was she on about.

Look, here's a sideways shot of my body, showing the curve of my ass.

But there were no cellphones in that age, so she was kind of made to beg, I suppose, and that for the just plainest, bullshitest, Cabrina Green loaf bread waste of oven whitebread.

Anne Hattiwig.

And her pip.

Her squeak.

"John Villjohn."

"Row your oar faster, boy."

"I ain't been nobody's boy in a few decades, you chud."

And then the lash for him, it was.