I see you all around, and you must be robots. You must be, because I'll see you in Se and an hour later, you're in Ne and then there you are again, in St. Johns. You're all simply fucking creepy. You're old men with grey beards and baseball caps, you ride your bikes wearing old faded jeans, black leather coats and all of you have those dilapidated kiddie trailers straggling behind you. Sometimes, you're smoking cigarettes while you're speeding off to some faraway location where the empty bottles and cans are aplenty. You should be someone's dear old grandpa, but no, you're just some creepy old clone. You're everywhere, and you fucking creep me out. You all look exactly the same, like there's some hidden clothing store you all steal from. It can't be a coincidence that you all choose to wear those fake leather coats. You must be issued them, by the Clone Father who sends you out on your can collecting missions. Orders to keep peddling, never stop peddling and to make your way through our neighborhoods. Too busy to inflate your bike tires properly, or to take a fucking bath. I wish I could see you all when you leave your cave in the early hours of the morning, an army of old clones in mass, cigarette smoke billowing out of your battalion like that old steam engine coming around the bend in Stand By Me. None of you smiling, just hiding behind your beards with that dead look in your eyes and peddling, always peddling. What a terrifying sight that would be.
Creepy Old Clones
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