Manhattanites love the sky, broadband it, a gangland bandit, a sweet, replete, a myth in airwaves, scares like a mountain vibe, to go below, to a subway, stinking like a round of fire,
Where so dang tired, as to have respired, to have dived, deep dived, into a ringing of change, to leap the turnstile, run the four minute mile, not a mule, nor a gang bang, or a slip of the hip, to defile, in ire, in ridge of a slope, an antidote,
Ghislaine, testing and tasting the waters, goes to publishing capitol, music capitol, Catty Cap Cap Capitol, Records, to hear a roar, of an evening tide change, ripping up Hudson River, Hud like a young son, like a freckle of moon, a change of a gang, firing a rifle in refrain, feeling at home, and feeling the research, the love of the truth, the love of the mass, a reposte, a repast, a Rockefeller, from what oil-producing state, consolidates his wealth, with a flurry of Rockette.
Spam of Human Affection 
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