Flints and Carob Hats

‘…lousy cod bastards…!’ yawed the alms man unyieldingly, ’…never to soon to learn a new jig, scat cunts…!’ He missed a mile by a foot and dallied to the left, then the right, then right of centre and back, never once loosing a foothold on the jiggering jig. ‘…when piss can fly…’. ‘…when prigs can fly?’ offered Dejesus geeing, ‘…you mean prigs, of course?’ The alms man felt for the sullied spot on his trousers, between the fifth pocket and the fob, and said ungallantly ‘…cod sissies can piss on a prigs fly for all I care…sissy cod bastards…!’ ‘…or up a rope’ said Dejesus. ‘…whore down it for all I give…’ ministered the alms man. ‘…whore indeed’ said Dejesus, halfcock flaunting. ‘…’tis a shameful sight, by Lord, these dogmen with their flints and carob hats,…bastards…!’ ‘…and not very mindful of their manners…’added Dejesus. ‘…not a truth of a lie there, by any stretch of the a pagination!’ The dogmen milled about lying out streamers of weed-green algae to soak in the sun. The biggest of the dogmen lit his cob and tallied a draw, cheeks sacking inwards. The water rose forebodingly, a shiner’s kip of cuprous weed willowing to the top.