Is Douglas dead? Or is that what they want you to think?
Maybe he’s busking, blowing his tiny trumpet under a grey, wind-blown bridge, in the hope passers-by throw him a few tiny morsels of butter. Any make, salted or unsalted, he can’t be fussy these days.
Is Douglas dead? Or is that what they want you to think?
Maybe he’s busking, blowing his tiny trumpet under a grey, wind-blown bridge, in the hope passers-by throw him a few tiny morsels of butter. Any make, salted or unsalted, he can’t be fussy these days.