The Man from the South


“Put some sounds on, man,” he said. “You got any skins?”
His joint was less than half an inch and speared with a pin.
“Like, wow,” he added. “Freaky bro. This awesome shit is cool.”
I don’t know why he talked like that. He came from Liverpool.
“Who cuts your skunk?” he asked at length. “It’s major mellow, dude.”
“I don’t do drugs,” I told him. “You’re just smoking OXO cubes.”

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