Marigolds and Lye

That was then and when the man in the hat bellied up a rope of peameal bacon wrapped around his wraparound. He witnessed the underbelly of his potbelly, an unsightly sight indeed it was it was. That day it rained well into the blight (night) and into the morning (mourning). As there was no escaping the rain the man in the hat stayed put under his makeshift awning, makeshift to keep the rain from pummeling his head there about there.

From above the bottom he saw things, things made from paste and string, things with odd names and strange shapes. He thought they might be faint fading things, things somewhere in between, in the middle of things. But the middle is where you find it, never where you left it. The dogmen sat sitting in a queue, faces facing southwesterly, eyes straining to see the fading faint images that fell from above the bottom. This is madness! Lunacy! One day the outside will become the inside, the bottom above, somewhere between the faint and the fading.

Wraparound around the middle, a fistful of madness and lunacy, one less hat to stiffen. The man in the hat thought that if he could just find one more hat to add to his collection he could make it a day. But as the days were getting longer all he could expect out of the day was a stiff neck and a fistful of marigolds and lye (he pressed marigolds and hollyhocks into a scrapbook, the two meeting in the middle).