Bad Timing and Sheep-herder's Pie

(He has on a haberdasher’s jacket, brownish gray with widespread lapels and a two-rose buttonhole. He rides a bicycle without a horn, flagon or bell). I’ve forsaken the other, the one that started and encouraged all this. No more sheep-herder’s pie and bitter ends, this must come to a (full complete) stop. This (whatever it is this) is taking its toll on me, making me think and see things that clearly don’t exist, and even if they did, would be unimaginable. The alms man begged for alms across from the aqueduct that ran willy-nilly along side the Seder’s grocery store. He placed his alms-cap in front of him (the hatband twisted and craned) crisscrossed his legs on either side of the visor and hummed humming. (Cars and trucks and side-panel vans and carryalls copulated to and fro and all about and round him). He thought he espied the Mercury fish truck corseting by, a shirtsleeve bluffing out the driver’s-side window; but when he looked a second time he saw a dog on a leash being towed behind a fat woman in a quails’-foot tam.