Glico J. Glico and Bradley

Glico J. Glico lived in a press-board house. He ate roots and tubers, cow’s stomach and black licorice and wore a floppy hat with an ostrich feather in the banding. In a parry, and while lamping for night-crawlers, the alms man ran into him in the park behind the aqueduct next to the Waymart across from the Jewish Baeyer’s. They exchanged un-pleasantries, the alms man lamping Glico J. Glico with his lamp, Glico J. Glico in turn swiping his hat at the alms man’s head, saying as he did ex pluribus minatory, then both men going their separate ways, the alms man back to lamping, Glico J. Glico to his press-board house. Neither man, Glico J. Glico nor the alms man, had ever heard of the Einer der nichts merkte tome, and even if they had, would have forgotten about it; anyhow, fisticuffs and yowling and racing-tab IOU’s and wearing garters instead of elasticized socks were more to their mien, and stoking through the dustbin behind the Jewish Baeyer’s when he and his wife were fast asleep beneath eider and down; all the while exchanging un-pleasantries and sucking on peps of licorice and tripe. These were things men with bad teeth and fencing scars did, never once stopping to ask themselves why they had bad teeth and fencing scars, or why tarpaper is sticky on both sides and smells like Dejesus, who comes from France and wears a beret, back to front, and speaks in Esperanto and Portuguese, strange fellow, but long on alms, and refers to Glico J. Glico as your majesty and the alms man as Bradley.