A song made, in four minutes and four seconds, of cigarettes and thickshakes in the Georgian afternoon wearing an apple-red silk shirt under bright yellow suspenders. Its been years now, but on the first day Sly cried: “Different strokes, for different folks!” It’s still right.
Speech married young. He lived in a one-room apartment on the west side of town with his bride, Laura. She worked long hours at the bakery and he roamed the streets, doing odd jobs to make ends meet. In the evenings, he cleaned the place from bottom to top, vacuuming stray crumbs from the carpet and wiping down the windows. He touched his hands to the bed, carefully smoothing out the creases in the blanket. Every night, Laura waited until he left the room before slipping in and ruffling the sheets, throwing the pillows across the room. Speech would go into the kitchen, toast some bread with crispy bacon and scrambled eggs with sprinkles of ham and tomato. He would make two. Speech called Laura into the living room and she would come, smiling quietly. A breath of something sweet in her ear, a touch on his arm, then they would sit side to side and ease into their toasted sandwiches. [Buy.]