My Ghetto Stories 
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 The ghost traitor;
Picked its same old handy folder yonder,wandered at the pillar then around King George the seconder's statue,erected over the Amber on the fray pillow casing and the treachery;Heaved onto Manga street to sunder from the chill in the weather unto modernity.Following the chassis of a sandy dilapidated Bedford trailer from one a dandified quarter,till it saw that Wagoner swerved and turned left at a no quieter resort. Assailed self now to the port of Beira in no quicker fortitude.And whom is here,grotesquely dressed in gaudy hostilities?The young and the restless Modesta,just off the grasshopper cache. "Ah,thought you were dead,it's long since I left the race course." She laps her index finger over another,huddled into a miniature crux.Whilst the rest of their coarse muscle eased on labour,clasped in an ardour of diurnal-tundra talk wiping.And almost forgotten,perused through a purger, just as the former mastermind from the once intact Portuguese souvenir town of Puzzle mazes. The wild visitor's contrite wrapped in Organza,astonishingly made with its organ of Reed for a mild denizen.A ventriloquist this is,raised in myth and Gothic tradition of the westerner. He asks no more of the bustling vendor,inflated the flute like its flutter which fathomed in the poignancy,alluded symphony to the wording Capricorn of Cancer.And the contemporary sashes of rhythm subside,with the next coming splinter.Thus she hands the spliced note pasted with tarter of mushrooms,maps the strand on the outside without any ennobled queer shot from virtue.


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