Par•tu•ri•tion How’ll

Tosspot miser pisses, brim-side up. A millionth and one melon pickers, snatchers by rote and hither, picking a millionth and two ripe fat juiceless melons, pottage pap issuing from the fornicator’s hole. Not a piss-heel to fitter away, spitting up in the par·tu·ri·tion how’ll, a strange site indeed, indeed, indeed. In everywhichwhere in everywhich place there are a millionth and sum melon pickers, snatchers by rote and hither, poking pappy caudal-sticks into ripe fat juiceless par·tu·ri·tion how’lls. Not a mum’s moment for thither and thon, nary nor nether. The man in the hat felt a cold shiver shinny down the hollow of his backbone. ‘Gad’s aloud’ he gamboled, ‘such a shivering shinny, and so coldly cold’.

When he was a boy he played rummy with the one-handed shovelman who took his lunch behind the gravel-pit Monday through Saturday at exactly 12 o'clock. He let the one-handed shovelman win every third hand. If they played for more than half an hour the shovelman’s hand would start to tremble, the skin tightening like plumb-string. The shovelman ate bologna sandwiches with Gibbs’ hard mustard and Friars’ soft cheese, shoveling into the pit of his mouth with exacting urgency. The man in the hat always brought his own lunch, a ham and cheese sandwich on seedy rye bread, a smallish custard cake and the half-bottle of Spruce Beer his da had left on the table the night before.