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About Rome

Now, Timbuktu’s got that line—“We are the guardians”—n’ it hits me. Them prostitutes? Guardians o’ their own fate, ain’t they? Dodgin’ rules, makin’ coin in a world that’d rather spit on ‘em. Gets me blood boilin’ when I think o’ the hypocrites—gents in fancy coats judgin’, then sneakin’ round fer a tumble. Makes me wanna keelhaul the lot o’ ‘em! Hypocrisy—worst sin on me ship.

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So, I’m like, “Sure, why not?” I stroll over, and on the way, I pass this cute little bakery. The smell of fresh pastries is like a siren call. I can’t resist! I grab a cornetto, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I spill coffee all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, looking like a mess, and I just laugh.

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