It’s colder than a nun’s habit. A Pantheon of coldness; shear cold: coldness colder cold. Aragón cold: so cold that the word cold has lost all meaning; a simulacrum of cold. Dare I venture outside on such a mercilessly cold day? Dare I dare yes. Surly a Sherpa would help lighten the load, the trudging and plodding and gadding this way and that.
This is a crock, this crick in the neck. Neurological buggery (sodomites at high-noon) phalluses aimed and at the ready. The acrid whiff of creosote and barrel-soy, my dearest dear, shoulders high and squared, not a moments rest for the coitus adjunct. I thought the cold would ferry a reprieve from the crockery of my neck, but alas it was not to be. Dane cunt, sure mom’s bickering stayed his ears like bees’ wax. Tomorrow the morrow I will seek higher ground, perhaps atop a hillock or a hill of beans. I’ve had a hankering for the beanery since I was a wee lad in culottes and knees, waiting my turn in the throwaway-isle at the grocery shop. Mom’s prickly-pear hands grubbing stowaways and renames for the fat wee bastard with the orange Popsicle grin.
These were poor times, times of ferrying about in sedan-cars and mini’s, whiplashing our way from one outpost to the other, never mind you’re grimy faces, keep you’re hands on the wheel. A tin of Campbell’s tomato soup is well worth the drivearound, 5 cents a tin ain’t nothing to bugger at. And if you canna keep you’re ass in the stroller-sway, hands-off the tins and bugger off the lot of you! Never did have a fondness for the steady as she goes Campbell’s hocks and beans, and that wee pad of lard, like a slug raviolied in its own sewer-spill. (Bettach a tin of the old standby it’s going to be a cold one tomorrow, colder than a nun’s habit on a fishfry day).
This is a crock, this crick in the neck. Neurological buggery (sodomites at high-noon) phalluses aimed and at the ready. The acrid whiff of creosote and barrel-soy, my dearest dear, shoulders high and squared, not a moments rest for the coitus adjunct. I thought the cold would ferry a reprieve from the crockery of my neck, but alas it was not to be. Dane cunt, sure mom’s bickering stayed his ears like bees’ wax. Tomorrow the morrow I will seek higher ground, perhaps atop a hillock or a hill of beans. I’ve had a hankering for the beanery since I was a wee lad in culottes and knees, waiting my turn in the throwaway-isle at the grocery shop. Mom’s prickly-pear hands grubbing stowaways and renames for the fat wee bastard with the orange Popsicle grin.
These were poor times, times of ferrying about in sedan-cars and mini’s, whiplashing our way from one outpost to the other, never mind you’re grimy faces, keep you’re hands on the wheel. A tin of Campbell’s tomato soup is well worth the drivearound, 5 cents a tin ain’t nothing to bugger at. And if you canna keep you’re ass in the stroller-sway, hands-off the tins and bugger off the lot of you! Never did have a fondness for the steady as she goes Campbell’s hocks and beans, and that wee pad of lard, like a slug raviolied in its own sewer-spill. (Bettach a tin of the old standby it’s going to be a cold one tomorrow, colder than a nun’s habit on a fishfry day).
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