Cabbage and Blood

In these times of shag-end lips men like Dejesus and Gibbs lay quick waste to a solicitous hand or a chutney smile, preferring, as they do, a cock of the head or a swift boot to the comeuppance, such arborous so-and-sos, Claxton backers the lot of ‘em. I shat at the moon, in-aqueous, and at the stars, those crooked waif’s teeth, such indelicacies, and with neither an auger nor a pea to pot in. The odds of being even are merciless, a portend without a talisman or amulet, a barnstormer in knee-britches and so-and-sew socks, pulled cinched into the clove of his hipbone, soups ready, dear Charlie vendor, tis a silly hymen in stewpot, roil of cabbage and blood-putting, not for the frail of heart or kidney. Mister Gibbs devoured a mile-or-some of toast and jam, with a side-plate of boiled calf’s testicles leafed in peapods and arrowroot. Then upon hearting his name, hoisting his petiole up over and above his head, was overheard to say, fuck outta the way you blackguards, I’ve a sermon to give!, and high-tailed it, his coattails flapping like sailcloth between his skinny legs.