Malister

Teenage mums laid in the glory of god under queen bitches and snitches with bedraggled eyes and upended nerve endings in the sugary cloud of the Brit Sugar factory; twenty four hour puppets on call with halitosis and cheap suits, all walking toward Bedlam for a pint whilst still blindly surfing the internet internally, playing it out, milking it for all it might mean –

Bury St Edmund’s