Once below a bright blue crescent moon, two warrior poets danced angrily, spilling ambrosia and semen, screaming toward the Heavens, “We’re out of hot dogs, you horny mother fucker!!” And on the seventh day, it rained; delivering a torrent of cobblers, meats and song. The skydiving hobo is born and departed just as quickly – as his homemade parachute failed to open during his airborne assault of Boston Market.
- I just ate a cold cut sandwich on a hot dog bun. #bestdayoffever http://twitter.com/10thstreethobos
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