The gyp-rock man came by way of Nordjylland in the township of Nibe, a small shipbuilder’s village off the coast of Denmark. Before that he lived briefly in a shanty shack in Montreuil, not far from the Ile-de-France, where he sold rock salt from the back of a pushcart previously used to haul carrion to the livestock burners. He was a maudlin man with little time for cheerfulness and glad tidings. He preferred unhappy endings and cold toast with the crusts left on. ‘…you’re a great one for the squab and kittle…’ said the harridan’s sister to the gyp-rock man. The gyp-rock man smiled, his face flat with disinterest, and said ‘…indeed I am madam, now fuck off…scat!’ (More and more characters, where do they all come came from, where? I, the scribbler of these dismissive tropes, haven’t the foggiest. They come came wherever they came come from, its as simple as that then).
A grime-braggart grimaced sky skyward. Too much faith and tallow in votive things, tanacetum vulgare, weensy biscuits with trebled ends. Its nary too late to learn an old trick, rolling round the manse (house) in your best pajamas, hop-skipping-jump through the rector’s hoopla. These are the things of legend, the porker’s treat at the end of a fat sweaty day. Stop that hoopla, will you please, I haven’t a pisspot to tosspot in. He swathed the skillsaw like a man gone saucy, one to the dozen or five to the mixer; pullet-mule, he said he said, heave whore the oxen-carts, careful where you toddle, you never know what’s crouching a hind the next roundabout round (One more kick at the tinsmith’s tin, enough of a load to send the saintliest man over dale and hillock).
‘…and now’ he said, ‘…I will pullet a rarebit through the cakehole of me arse..’. Not a sight for sorghum eyes, every which way which the fuzzy hussies, once Kipper Days overt thing’s well get back to Mormon, Christos, yes. The shamble leg man espied a crow flying upside in circles, wings furling and unfurling like a circus awning. ‘…dare I say’ he said, ‘…things must get evenly worse before they get any butter…’.
A grime-braggart grimaced sky skyward. Too much faith and tallow in votive things, tanacetum vulgare, weensy biscuits with trebled ends. Its nary too late to learn an old trick, rolling round the manse (house) in your best pajamas, hop-skipping-jump through the rector’s hoopla. These are the things of legend, the porker’s treat at the end of a fat sweaty day. Stop that hoopla, will you please, I haven’t a pisspot to tosspot in. He swathed the skillsaw like a man gone saucy, one to the dozen or five to the mixer; pullet-mule, he said he said, heave whore the oxen-carts, careful where you toddle, you never know what’s crouching a hind the next roundabout round (One more kick at the tinsmith’s tin, enough of a load to send the saintliest man over dale and hillock).
‘…and now’ he said, ‘…I will pullet a rarebit through the cakehole of me arse..’. Not a sight for sorghum eyes, every which way which the fuzzy hussies, once Kipper Days overt thing’s well get back to Mormon, Christos, yes. The shamble leg man espied a crow flying upside in circles, wings furling and unfurling like a circus awning. ‘…dare I say’ he said, ‘…things must get evenly worse before they get any butter…’.
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