Walk down St. Paul Street. There's the guy, chaotic brown hair, beard and moustache. Spit on the ground then hand him a cigarette. The blond guy always looks high on meth. Asks for change or a piece of cake. Tends to walk up and down the street screaming assholes assholes.
The students aren't much better. It's late, it's so damn late and they're out drinking and fighting. Slap a bitch, leave her naked and crying on the doorstep. You can see her ribs from two blocks down. Rich people.
Roaches infest the sidewalks, ants congregate around a dead cat. Couldn't make the transition to city life. Didn't understand the fast-paced traffic around the walkways and roadways. Hit a car, now his throat's passed through his mouth. No more milk mewling.
...but elephants, elephants too. They make these low-pitch rumbling sounds that only elephants can...
Animals have language. Animals can speak. Myself, I tend to emit sharp creaking sounds from my kneecaps, audible by most, audible mostly to me.
I haven't got any cake, haven't got any change. Sorry. I smoked my last cigarette. It's not a lie, here's the empty pack. I'm sorry I'm not better prepared, but buy your own fucking pack, you hippie bum.
Away from campus, down the way it's the village. Some fat bitch with a bright orange head wrap wears a tshirt that says stop the animal holocaust.
No shit, tubs.