The English band Crass sounded like a bag of rocks: scrabbly drum rolls, clanky guitars, no bass end, the words a jabbery Cockney caterwaul through endless stanzas of common meter.
“max, you know i don't smoke.” “this is different.” “What is it?” “gage.” “eh?” “texas tea. mexican spinach. maitland madness. loco weed. indian hemp. gangster. marijuana.”
I would tell the camp mother, on my way out, so she would take charge while I was away.
But it was not in John Darling to stand waiting at an unopening door, wasting his time, as he would have said.
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