A kind of self defined platform orator, trapped between the track and ticket gates, proudly speaking out to the rail riding world. His silverless tongue pleads open donation; but with his plum red face and taste for filthy denim, fragrant notes of fags and booze blew loose as he sighed into the parting carriage doors. The rail riding fraternity nervously clocked him to shim glances his way laden with dismay. In apt parlance I would advance to say, That his designs to ride the rails, must wait to alight another day.
Collection: Different Strokes of Strife