Imbécil Afastado

Tongue lolling, a caught fish out of water, the legless man set about the day, the early morning sky a blister of fallen rain. He bit down on the cord of his tongue, a weal of blood, and sighed ‘…how I abhor this punting life…’. His pushcart shifting, he drove his punting sticks into the rain slickened blacktop, all that separated this world from hell below. Ethereally punting waywardly he found himself in a jam, having forgotten his Rand McNally in his other coat pocket, the one with the streets marked in ovum and blush. Not knowing where he was going, or why, he struck harder, his punting sticks clacking on the roof of hell. ‘…goodness comes in petite fours…’ he whispered, ‘…the icing in a separate ox…’. An oxcart trundled past, the oxen snorting wildly, the axmen driving them hard. On the taxmen’s lap, wrapped in sackcloth, was a felling axe he sharpened on a strop he wore in a scabbard cinched round his waist with admen’s twine. The oxcart driver bawled ‘…vereinbaren sie unten, sie bastardrinder…’, the oxen pulling to a full stop, the cart toppling sideways. ‘…sie, gehen von können weise hinaus…’ he yelled, the legless man punting harder, his pushcart bumping into the lead ox. ‘…imbecile, allontanato..!’ screamed the axmen, his face red with fury. The legless man swerved, his pushcart colliding with the oxcart, the adman wailing at the top of his voice, his face blackened with rage ‘…imbécil, afastado…!’ ‘…olly olly oxen free…’ hollered the legless man, ‘…kick the can and be gone with you, oxman...’.