…spent sperm-sacs, sticky subaqueous messy mess. God fearless milk teats pap prate. I haven’t an iota, not two. The man in the hat had a wish, and the wish was to buy as many hats as he could carry, wear each hat one after the other until he’d worn each hat at least once, then throw them into the aqueduct one hat at a time. This way he figured he could be done with hats once and for all. The second crewman said to the first crewman ‘…pigstick the God fearless God fearlessers one at a time…’. ‘…and be done with ‘em…every last one…’ said the first crewman, his crewman’s cap ticking. ‘…to a tee…’ said the second crewman crudely…a mess of hats and spent condoms, tarts dance to the portside jig, the man in the hat sitting under the fallen Waymart awning yawning, such a stickle of a day. The Homagama slattern feared God fearlessness, her skives pulled up over her head, feet jiggling wiggly, the sky black as a roofer’s heart.
A gray porker’s grey sky, God fearing fearless cunts. ‘…bellies wormy with spunk…’ said the second crewman, ‘…cakehole diggers…’. A gravel-hawk flew flipping across the gray grey sky, wings sculling nits of crude morning air; out of the blue sky blue the man in the hat collecting his things and hi-tailing it for lower ground, the slattern pulling on his greatcoattails begging him to stay, ‘…stay, please say you’ll stay…’. Her slatternly pull pulling him down fast, he pushed free, his best hat, the Corbusier flatcar cap, flat on the crown of his head. ‘…I’ll be back when the bells in the belfry tower chime…’ he said, ‘…not a moment before…’.
Outside the sky, way up above the stratosphere, a crude stickman danced madfootedly, teeth chattering, a fearless look on his fearsome face. ‘…let bygones be bygones, and the sooner the better…’ he chimed. The stickman danced, madfeet cutting furrows in the Dead Sea sky, ‘…eupepsy daisy, you cowardly fiends…!’ The legless man dancing one-footedly looked upward into the sky and exclaimed ‘…never too early to forget an old swindle…’. …and then the thump thump thump to the back of head, skullcap kittling to the brown earthy brown earth. The townspeople gartered in the centre of town. Dejesus kicked the washerwoman’s soapbox out from beneath her feet, ‘…that’ll show you my little slattern whore, never trip up a man when he’s sermonizing…’. The legless man turned to the alms man, who turned to the man without a hat, who turned to face the harridan who was sternly reproofing her sister, who said ‘…well I’ll be, a Dejesus Christy without a tosspot to piss in…’. The man in the hat stood an unfair distance from the gathered crowd, his fingers trebling the brim of his hat, a sou'wester with a pheasant feather hatband and a cockspur stickpin. ‘…can’t say if I can say, never have been one for the yak and banter…’.
A gray porker’s grey sky, God fearing fearless cunts. ‘…bellies wormy with spunk…’ said the second crewman, ‘…cakehole diggers…’. A gravel-hawk flew flipping across the gray grey sky, wings sculling nits of crude morning air; out of the blue sky blue the man in the hat collecting his things and hi-tailing it for lower ground, the slattern pulling on his greatcoattails begging him to stay, ‘…stay, please say you’ll stay…’. Her slatternly pull pulling him down fast, he pushed free, his best hat, the Corbusier flatcar cap, flat on the crown of his head. ‘…I’ll be back when the bells in the belfry tower chime…’ he said, ‘…not a moment before…’.
Outside the sky, way up above the stratosphere, a crude stickman danced madfootedly, teeth chattering, a fearless look on his fearsome face. ‘…let bygones be bygones, and the sooner the better…’ he chimed. The stickman danced, madfeet cutting furrows in the Dead Sea sky, ‘…eupepsy daisy, you cowardly fiends…!’ The legless man dancing one-footedly looked upward into the sky and exclaimed ‘…never too early to forget an old swindle…’. …and then the thump thump thump to the back of head, skullcap kittling to the brown earthy brown earth. The townspeople gartered in the centre of town. Dejesus kicked the washerwoman’s soapbox out from beneath her feet, ‘…that’ll show you my little slattern whore, never trip up a man when he’s sermonizing…’. The legless man turned to the alms man, who turned to the man without a hat, who turned to face the harridan who was sternly reproofing her sister, who said ‘…well I’ll be, a Dejesus Christy without a tosspot to piss in…’. The man in the hat stood an unfair distance from the gathered crowd, his fingers trebling the brim of his hat, a sou'wester with a pheasant feather hatband and a cockspur stickpin. ‘…can’t say if I can say, never have been one for the yak and banter…’.
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