series2bk6.0

 

We assemble together in our elegant attire, aware of our glaring upper class-status, with a penchant for nonchalant behaviour, while we race each other up chic peaks of inebriation as a bond of fellowship. We tell the world it's our bowling alley, and skittle the brittle trogs who doggedly offend us to clutter the gutter, and let our persons pass - knowing how to crack a whip, and to blow a bugle at midnight. Considerable devastation occurs in the wake we make with our vandalizing tornado, starkly marking our home ground with this specially elitist graffiti, indelibly imprinted on the memory of plebs.      There's nought to foster pride, (indeed it's shame,)      with loutish antics as our claim to fame.