Before leaving home the harridan took a sulfa bath. Having never before today been beyond the outskirts of town she was fearful she might catch a fearful cold or the plague. Today she was meeting with the tinsmith between here and there. Having never been here there or anywhere in between, she put on her carcoat and highest pair of kneesocks. She was told about a hoi polloi of dogmen who lived between here and there and about trees so wide you couldn’t see an inch in front of your nose. She was cautioned about walking too slowly and about giant midgets that would eat you up and spit you out in little bitty pieces. She was warned about all sorts of hoi polloi and things so unspeakably horrid they made your skin crawl.
Her skirts gartered round her waist, hair cinched in a topknot, on her way she went, the sky trailing behind her like a smitten lover. ‘…these are perilous times…’ she said trembling, ‘…perilous indeed…’. A piccolo playing a trumpet played. Simply dressed in overalls and checkered shirt a farmhand swung the oxmallet, caving in the front of the steer’s head, scattering bone and mason’s dust every which where. The harridan took a step backwards, faltering, then walked onwards on, her thoughts on caved in skulls and checkered shirts.
She met the tinsmith behind the Waymart, a rubbish bin full of feebly execute origami cranes separating them. The tinsmith, jiggling, said ‘…have you the whore’s glove…?’ The harridan, waggling, said ‘…no…’. ‘…then where is it…? ‘…somewhere where you’ll never find it…’ They parted, the tinsmith heading to the west, the harridan to the east, a slay of crows overhead circling, the harridan rushing homeward, her skirts gathered round the hoop of her waist.
Her skirts gartered round her waist, hair cinched in a topknot, on her way she went, the sky trailing behind her like a smitten lover. ‘…these are perilous times…’ she said trembling, ‘…perilous indeed…’. A piccolo playing a trumpet played. Simply dressed in overalls and checkered shirt a farmhand swung the oxmallet, caving in the front of the steer’s head, scattering bone and mason’s dust every which where. The harridan took a step backwards, faltering, then walked onwards on, her thoughts on caved in skulls and checkered shirts.
She met the tinsmith behind the Waymart, a rubbish bin full of feebly execute origami cranes separating them. The tinsmith, jiggling, said ‘…have you the whore’s glove…?’ The harridan, waggling, said ‘…no…’. ‘…then where is it…? ‘…somewhere where you’ll never find it…’ They parted, the tinsmith heading to the west, the harridan to the east, a slay of crows overhead circling, the harridan rushing homeward, her skirts gathered round the hoop of her waist.
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