Every single fugly person contributes to the city having a disease. The white ionic columns have been stained yellow green by the malnutritional shit spewing from their collective assholes. They take their rusty pots and pans into the street and clamor, begging for more, more, more, banging them, letting the cacophony fill the air.

They are wearing crusty t-shirts and jorts,

and they want to stick their Dorito-covered fingers into our mouth

to rip out our gold teeth.

Yes, yes, my friend, this city has a disease,

and this disease is rotten to the core.

Mr. James Vanderbilt Kennedy observed me eagerly with a quizzical look that seemed to encourage me to continue.

I did.

Oh, yes, this city has a disease.

In our schools, children chomp and bite cigars and e-cigars and inhale the putrid

smoke, exhaling the dark rank smoke into the good linens and drapes, forcing the most sublime

of us to bask in their destitution. Oh, yes.

This city is the type of city so sick that only a real rain could wash it all away.

Tell me more about this rain, said Mr. James Vanderbilt Kennedy.

Oh, this city, I kept going.

This city and its fucking disease.

It makes me sick to the pits of my stomach.

The sewers fill with the icker and bile of the uneducated,

stroking and poking their pricks.

Their nasty genitalia spray urine and phermones all over the bus stops.

They climb and climb the scaffolding of

progress, and they wipe their big blue monkey asses all over the greatest architecture the

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