Let's get one thing straight, she ain't a looker, but Rosie can full on shag homes. Back in the day, me and Rosie had a "lost weekend". On a spring day like this in NYC, I think of her naked, oiled body. We'd feed each other figs dipped in mayo, smoke a J then get all kinds of weird-funk-nasty. I hear Rosie is a scissor sister now, that's cool baby. I'm hip. My poem to Rosie:
Naked.
White.
A lot of white.
Why don't you use the toilet, it's faster.
Shame never felt so right.
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