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About Bologna

So, prostitute—street crawler, right? Sells flesh for coin, sneaky an’ sad. Heard this tale once—true stuff, swear it! Some lass in old London, 1800s, worked the docks. Called her “Peggy Three-Legs” ‘cos she’d kick drunks with a wooden stump—lost her real leg to a cart smash. Fierce, she was! Made me grin, thinkin’ of her bashin’ heads, but then—ugh—we hates it! Stinks of desperation, don’t it? Like “Under the Skin,” all hollow eyes an’ fake smiles. “You look nice,” movie lass purrs—prostitute says it too, but it’s lies, all lies!

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After that, I’m feeling kinda bummed, but I push on. I stroll down Corso Canalgrande, and it’s beautiful. The buildings are all colorful, and I’m snapping pics like a tourist. I mean, who wouldn’t? Then I see this street performer, right? He’s juggling and making jokes. I’m laughing so hard, I almost forget about the prosciutto disaster. Almost.

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