Jack Vettriano Cafe DaysJack Vettriano Busted FlushJack Vettriano Bluebird
mean and turf and I'm mean and turf,
'And me an' my friends can walk towards you
with our hats on backwards in a menacing way,
'Yo!'
Gortlick chewed the end of his composing hammer thoughtfully.
'Good rhythm,' he said, 'but the words need some work.'
'You mean more gold'The Cavern?' screamed Glod. 'Chrysoprase the troll runs it, that's the problem!'
'Dey say he's a godfather in the Breccia,' said Cliff.
'Now now, that's never been proved . . .'
'Only 'cos it's very hard to prove things when someone's scooped a hole in your head and buried your feet in it!'
'There's no need for this prejudice, just because he's a troll–, gold, gold?''Ye‑es. What're you thinking of calling it?''Er . . . r . . . rat . . . music. . .''Why rat music?'Hammerjug looked puzzled.'Couldn't really say,' he said. 'It was just an idea I had in my brain.'Gortlick shook his head. Dwarfs were a burrowing race. He knew what they liked.'Good music's got to have hole in it,' he said. 'You ain't got nothing if you ain't got hole.''Now calm down, calm down,' said Dibbler. 'It's the biggest venue in Ankh‑Morpork, that's why. I don't see what the problem is . . .'
No comments:
Post a Comment