The biggest dogmen pulled a dead heron from the aqueduct, the littlest dogmen shrilly whistling Mary Heron of God, the other dogmen whooping and heckling. The bird’s wings were shorn off where tendon meets cartilage, feathers bled with exhaustion. The dogmen swung the carcass round and round, snapping the lifeless body against the trunk of a fichus tree. The Witness, who had been spying on the dogmen wedged between fichus and hawthorn, looked on in horror, legs shaking unstoppably. ‘…good Lord…’ he whispered to himself, ‘…the horror them cods are capable of…!’ The dogmen ate piss-curd with sweetmeat dumplings sopping up the rue with black bread and whiskey rag. They danced spinning round a casket-wood fire, the biggest dogmen trading steps with the littlest, the others clapping like marauders, a wailing coming from the fichus’.
Mr. and Mrs. Ronan Critchely lived on a hobble farm in the northern provinces. They lived with two dogs, three cats and a hog a poacher’s belly up from the southern provinces where the older folk wore skive smocks and wooded clogs year round. Mr. and Mrs. Critchely were wed on a sunshiny day in June 1927½ in a landau dory afloat the aqueduct, after which they moved to the northern provinces to escape the seething hatred of the dogmen, who had recently taken over the hard brown dirty dirt on the north side of the aqueduct. ‘…goodness God have mercy on us…’ Mrs. Critchely plead the day the dogmen arrived in town, ‘…what’re we common folks to make of such vile crumbly heathens…?’
The very next day Mrs. Critchely convinced her husband (Mr. Ronan Critchely) to whisk her away to the northern provinces where dogmen were nowhere to be found. They (Mr. and Mrs. Ronan Critchely of the northern provinces) in they’re haste to flee before the dogmen made of mess of them, body, soul and husbandry, left behind their third dog, an Irish Settler that went by the name of Augustine J. Wallops the 3rd. Such is the story of Mr. and Mrs. Ronan Critchely, late of the town where the monstrous dogmen lived monstrously, who fled fleeing to the northern provinces where the olden folks wore skive smocks and wooden clogs year in and year out.
Mr. and Mrs. Ronan Critchely lived on a hobble farm in the northern provinces. They lived with two dogs, three cats and a hog a poacher’s belly up from the southern provinces where the older folk wore skive smocks and wooded clogs year round. Mr. and Mrs. Critchely were wed on a sunshiny day in June 1927½ in a landau dory afloat the aqueduct, after which they moved to the northern provinces to escape the seething hatred of the dogmen, who had recently taken over the hard brown dirty dirt on the north side of the aqueduct. ‘…goodness God have mercy on us…’ Mrs. Critchely plead the day the dogmen arrived in town, ‘…what’re we common folks to make of such vile crumbly heathens…?’
The very next day Mrs. Critchely convinced her husband (Mr. Ronan Critchely) to whisk her away to the northern provinces where dogmen were nowhere to be found. They (Mr. and Mrs. Ronan Critchely of the northern provinces) in they’re haste to flee before the dogmen made of mess of them, body, soul and husbandry, left behind their third dog, an Irish Settler that went by the name of Augustine J. Wallops the 3rd. Such is the story of Mr. and Mrs. Ronan Critchely, late of the town where the monstrous dogmen lived monstrously, who fled fleeing to the northern provinces where the olden folks wore skive smocks and wooden clogs year in and year out.
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