Pale Hairless Legs

A pork-belly grey sky awoke he to. Were it to rain it would rain like the blazes. Were it not to rain the sky would open its great maw and bawl sunshine. Were a bell to ring it would ring ragingly. Were a fire to burn it would burn burningly. Were a crow to caw it would caw-caw crawlingly. Stonecrops sprouting a Leif’s-leaping from the Bacliff bower, a crone’s throw from the Bay-of-Figs M’-pyre. Leggy legs made from beetroot and steel tubing, legs so strong and powerful they could gambol over tall buildings in a single bound, super manly legs, not stumps that stank of rot and fester. Not Bay of Pig’s legs or too-short legs; legs that stumbled and tripped and made a nuisance of themselves. Fat legs with knees and meniscuses and aches and pains. Legs one could sleep with curled up into a neat tidy bow. Bowlegged dogs’legs with sharp claws and pads. He would settle for legs covered in hair, white and crumbly like his granddad’s legs; anything but fester and rot, his Bay of Jigs legless legs.