A fettling squabbled across the blacktop, its tiny bird’s tongue weaning. The shamble leg man stopped, turned northeasterly, his right leg poling southwesterly, and stared at the fettling. ‘…mercies, what a strange sight indeed…’. The shamble leg man felt a cold shiver run up is tailbone and into the base of his neck. Whenever he felt quair and uneasy, which was more oft than not, he saw a weanling, its tiny bird’s tongue slickening in and out of its beak. The day before he espied a cork-hen slitting the wedge-way proper, its doves’ feet kicking up a fuss and bother.
He had no hanker for fowl; quair wee cunts. ‘...best left to they’re own devices, flat-caked between mudguard and tyre’. All this squabbling had the shamble leg man thinking about a bedtime story his great aunt told over and over. The charwoman charred woodchips in the first cook’s woodstove. When the first cook arrived home, which he did everyday at 3 O’clock on the dot, he threw the charwoman out the window. He never quite understood the morale of the story, or why his great aunt told it over and over, but whenever he felt unto do or uneven, which was more oft than not, remembering the story made him feel better.
‘…this persistent hiving is killing me…!’ He often heard a buzzing in the hollows of his ears, so much so, so much buzzing and burring that he had to clap his hands over his ears, a bumping echo drumming in his head. ‘…goodness me, this hiving hive is killing me…’. A cuvee of doves coo-cooed, the shamble leg man getting angrier with every coo-coo. ‘…nothing, not a thing, exists unless I say it does…!’ The shamble leg man readjusted his portly trousers and sighed, his hands firmly clapped over his ears, a burning in the stonepit of his gut.
He had no hanker for fowl; quair wee cunts. ‘...best left to they’re own devices, flat-caked between mudguard and tyre’. All this squabbling had the shamble leg man thinking about a bedtime story his great aunt told over and over. The charwoman charred woodchips in the first cook’s woodstove. When the first cook arrived home, which he did everyday at 3 O’clock on the dot, he threw the charwoman out the window. He never quite understood the morale of the story, or why his great aunt told it over and over, but whenever he felt unto do or uneven, which was more oft than not, remembering the story made him feel better.
‘…this persistent hiving is killing me…!’ He often heard a buzzing in the hollows of his ears, so much so, so much buzzing and burring that he had to clap his hands over his ears, a bumping echo drumming in his head. ‘…goodness me, this hiving hive is killing me…’. A cuvee of doves coo-cooed, the shamble leg man getting angrier with every coo-coo. ‘…nothing, not a thing, exists unless I say it does…!’ The shamble leg man readjusted his portly trousers and sighed, his hands firmly clapped over his ears, a burning in the stonepit of his gut.
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