Rozie was a helluva’ dame.
She could sink those rivets faster than a two-dollar fancy-girl could peel the wrapping off a sailor on shore leave, after he’d been at sea for several months, writing bad poetry and extended metaphors that ended up just kind of petering out, the way that an old man with a pipe full of wet monkey fur did, trying to light the mangy stuff with a can full of lima beans instead of a match or a zippo, or the right technology for the job.
Then the propeller cut off her head.
[From the Toulouse Le Grandfig Necrobiblia Collection]