The final stand of Two-Dick Willie. The toxic Negro crawl-injured sputtered fumes, and doomed Dizzy's blues limping bongo wishes. Two-Dick Willie took a hard stand against the Middle Patch's fare increase, and their possible puzzle-lick-block graduation gown rental fee. I hear they returned from the safari with bags of people pelts, brown, red, black, yellow, and even those higher-toned hues. They were rolled, roped, and bitter-battered, and worn as bigger-*** high-top sneakers. I'm here for you, Willie, to tell the tale of your last stand's marching kazoo band's player's sacrifice. Blow that horn, Willie, and bury them in tears and clear, cool moonshine. Blow it for my man, bright-baby-tooth Earl, who never got a chance to roll them dead dice.