Summer's Over and Summers' gone!

0718/1916 78/85 Light Clouds SW 10/20 90%H.
DOGS 10821 7725 1309 2185. LIBOR 23/29. VIX 23/31.

Greetings from the Hill.

A gusty day in paradise,
the oldman taking a stroll
up Love Lane.

"Well, we dodged that one,"
smiles Peter washing the Audi,
the Rolls Wraith gleaming,
restored by artisans,
coachwork and a paint job,
"New bumpers too and tyres,"
of English African descent.

"How about that funny swinger,"
his wife played golf...
he always remarked.

A rather ostentatious form of travel.

"He has a ten thousand dollar bicycle,"
commented Tony always amazed
at the lifestyle of renters.

Sometimes owning a home is unwise.

"The new budget is coming out...
likely four trillion,"
not a fan of Obama,
nor Internet,
read only the WSJ,
the down under subversive.

"That bloody jew will be Mayor of Chicago,
'it's' all in derivative debt,
they privatized parking meters
to bloody Goldman Sachs,"
he had a funny way of talking.

The Rolls smelled new...
that expensive leather aroma,
his one eyed cat jumped
on the wife's covered car
and winked at the oldman...
she liked the lane.

"They are all leaving him,
'it' couldn't work out,
Clinton's misfits from Harvard,
MIT pretenders from Goldman,
and his Acorn Club,"
snorting on the stones.

All that from one newspaper.

The oldman was overwhelmed
and headed for his sanctity,
classics and cornbread.

Maybe Tony's spaghetti

And a couple of pints.

What could the masses be thinking
who watched talking tits
and believed Glenn Beck.

Could the Crisis have ended,
the Recession recovered,
all factories hiring.

The economy booming.

"Don't quit your night job."

"You might want to sing for supper."

The illegal aliens were busy again,
taking the neighbors storm shutters down,
fancying the gardens,
preparing for Fantasy Fest.

Absent homeowners renting for fortunes
to pay for property taxes,
the month of Gay love and lust
and fantasies of the past,
for the survivors
of the dreaded curse.

"La Te Da is for sale,"
shrugged the photographer,
capturing history,
perhaps the last great party
for those who can remember.

"Some guy named Walsh bought
the Porter House
for eight million,"
frowning and taking a pint,
"He operated that stand."

And eight other joints.

Always a Prol Perry,
a Bobbie Mongelli,
a horse on the course.

"Hey, you fucked up...
where's the other Spottswood,"
laughs the madone,
filling the cat bowls.

"John says Sloan is too bold
for an old man without a license
and no permit to preach,
not even a sunday tent
with fritters and grits,"
always amazed...

At the breeze in the Keys
that blew away the rain.

Above the Horn.

Beyond the Reef.

Gullible's Belief.