This little hobo, Little Lickie the Least.
Big Bigsie pursuing Little Lickie as Lickie lick-ducks into a tavern. Or, picks-tucks into a Mannahatta hostelry; or stickup-stuckup into a Casablanca nightclub; or lake-pocks into Minnihaha hotel lobby; Potemkin la manse, so in Lickie goes, lickety split chi chi, lick spittle, off the griddle, the griddle pocks-shucks Little Lickie in the lounge, but Little Lickie can’t lounge or leisure when Big Bigsie pursuing, seized with seizure, to exploit, to roll the little hobo of the last of the hobo’s dough.
Big Bigsie, fat of the lamb, on the lamb chops and hocks, going whole toad, a demonic shizoid afflicted with herculean hemorrhoids, needing to feed, needing to bleed, seeking adulation, chew carpet, to mop, against his beadle brow a silent pow wow, get Little Lickie say uncle, “Uncle Donald”, as a true, true, true New York Daily Mail, solemn as Ishmael, as a diamond love, or a Jamie Dimon, sins and sings the singalong with Neil Diamond, Song Sung Blue. Singing the blues, hit the road. Hit the road, Jack, and doncha come back, a la mode.
Little Lickie the Least, at least alive on the streets, feels the beats as Big Bigsie beats down, first with his fists, then star-spangled night stick, and lastly, with his crown.
Spam of Human Affection 
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