Pantagruelian Carnival

One day soon all these people will meet, a Pantagruelian Carnival of the decretalifuges, the decretalicides, the decretalictones, the grotesque, the antipode, the devalued, the parsimonious, the flatulent, the moronic, provocateurs and contrabandists, Les horribles et épouvantables faits et prouesses du très renommé Pantagruel Roi des Dipsodes. When the sun reaches its zenith the carnival will commence. And on that day the sky will fall for the last time. In Maidstone Lancing, Crossford and South Lanarkshire, where people dance and caper beneath carnival awnings, the sky will sally forth one last time then fall from sight forever. Bog shite, fen sore, madman. The sky falling, you say, through the piccolo of your ass you say, such blather, shame on you shame, shame! The sky has no intention of ever falling; it is as it is, head held high glorying in the white billowy clouds. Hats and toques and caps of all shapes and styles; woolen, silk, carpetbag, thatched and double-knit, a veritable carnival of toppers and flappers. Might I suggest a Corbusier flatcar cap or a Ripoll Trilby, a Pope’s Maître or a Bishopric Sou’wester? A hat is a man’s best friend, especially when the sky is falling. A straw Panama with a Burdon hatband, sweat proof for those humid mug a mug days. Man and woman, waif and dogman alike, none are safe under an august sky. Beware all who speak in ogress tongues, filthy shite motets, no one is given a whore’s chance when the sky falls atremble.