*laszlo cravensworth voice* Back in the twilight of the nineteenth century, in England, there was a spate of grisly murders, not far from myself and my lady wife’s old stomping grounds. Brutal stuff. The fellow used to asphyxiate young ladies, and then surgically remove their spines. Which was rather fascinating for myself, of course, given my recent jaunts into the realm of a more involved form of hunting in Whitechapel, but understandably quite terrifying for the local girls. Even the working girls at my favourite brothel were bloody bricking it, and they were some tough birds, real scrappy molls. So I wrote them a rallying cry of sorts, a bit of a brothel shanty, to bouy the old spirits. So that they could stand proudly, arm in arm and tit to tit, and holler to the high heavens: I’m no hollow-backed girl!
I have to say, my opinions on the cannibalistic plagiarism of my art notwithstanding: that Stefani woman fucking nailed the spirit of the piece. Even throwing in all that bloody fucking nonsense about bananas.
