Beatnik Needs a Favour

And that's when I smoked the dried fingernails of Howard Hughes. Yeah, all dried and ground up and weird. Don't know how my man got 'em but I'm a beat poet so fuck you and all your company of squares with your questions that are like a pack of hungry dogs that gnash their fangs at each other. Dogs that race through poverty littered backalleys. Yeah those questions will some day come home to roost in your mouth and as you die you'll cough up a couple of feathers. Yeah dogs and birds and other fucking beasts.

Oh yeah and can I borrow five bucks ?