MILO
now they're standing in the door
singin' "that's my shit, that's my shit"
singin' "that's my shit, that's my shit"
“Oy, it ain’ much fun bein’ the broody type y’know.” He offers in response to the ‘no’, though Milo makes no move to get up now that he’s sat down. So he fumbles in a pocket at the ‘no’ and after a few long excruciating moments he finally finds the little pack of matches, striking one on the rock beside Rigby to spark it aflame, moving it to his lips to the cigarette that sat there unlit and ready.
He sucks in a sigh of smoke, shakes out the match, before dropping it off the side of the cliff and watching it briefly as it disappears into the dark night. And when he lifts his head again to peer back at Rigby, he finds that the boy has leaned back entirely, his back to the stone and arms on his chest. “Y’look like yer waitin’ fer yer funeral.” He offers into the darkness, shrugging tattooed shoulders and taking another drag from the cigarette.
He sucks in a sigh of smoke, shakes out the match, before dropping it off the side of the cliff and watching it briefly as it disappears into the dark night. And when he lifts his head again to peer back at Rigby, he finds that the boy has leaned back entirely, his back to the stone and arms on his chest. “Y’look like yer waitin’ fer yer funeral.” He offers into the darkness, shrugging tattooed shoulders and taking another drag from the cigarette.
that's what everybody wants an' some more
singing "you may be the death of me"
singing "you may be the death of me"
