|Lucky (prompt with the words: lucky, TV, perch, murky, uneaten, instinct, gin, swampy, funk, medicinal)
Lucky Simpson was one lucky ole' fella. He had a mighty fine place in S. Florida--livin' near the swampy woods where the crocs roam free and keep varmints of the two and four legg'd kind way from his front porch. He would perch himself there on his metal bucket-chair at dawn, watching the murky sky blaze into daylight. His gin bottle was empty from the night before and his uneaten catfish dinner became breakfast for Sam, his ten-year old hound.
Years ago, Lucky's instinct had told him to cash in his annuity and buy twenty-five acres of land. So he had built his two bedroom house, hooked up a rabbit-ear TV, and bought a Bang and Olefsen for his vinyl collection. Music was his medicinal treatment, even better than gin. When the nights got long, EWF's falsetto notes took Lucky back to his youth: high times in California meant hot chicks, fast cars and mellow weed.
Life now was slower and as Lucky added up the years, he figur'd he was about as lucky as one man with a CIA pension could be.