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About Chicago

So I’m stumblin’, lookin’ fer a lass, right? Streets all twisty, dark—like that bit in the movie, “the favela’s a maze, man!” I see this gal, winkin’, smokin’—proper fit, yeah? I go, *mimes walking, trips, waves awkwardly* “Hullooo!” She laughs—bloody hell, I’m red as a lobster! Made me happy, that—silly ol’ me, charmin’ ‘em accidental-like. But then—BAM!—some bloke, her pimp prob’ly, storms up, all “Who’s this prat?!” *mimes dodging a punch, flails* Nearly shat meself!

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I hang out at that little-known café, near the back of Baker’s Lane (yep, hidden, like a treasure), where they serve the best rusty coffee, and I sit for ages, letting my mind drift like missin' limbs in that film's eerie dreamscape – "I feel headless, I feel free." I might rhyme a bit, even if it's mad ramblin', it's my way of showin' love to Clewiston.

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