Francisco Morazán Tegucigalpa wears knee-pants with darted cuffs and double-stitched hems. The better for jumping portside into the tumult sea. His da’s da met the crowdie bugger on a salt run from Petersburg to Saint Mahout, Francisco Morazán Tegucigalpa leaping portside as soon as the ship reached shore, his Ditty Bag stuffed with trinkets: wares to keep whores from flinching and showing up his meagre cockmanship. The sisters of Blackwater Mainistir at Fhear Maí took care of his da’s da when he fell ill from a congestion of the upper bowel; plying him with ointments and salves and swaddling him in cotton gin.
Giving into his infelicities, daily rations of egg rum and soft palate biscuits, what few teeth he had requiring an ease of chewing lest he swallow a wad or spit up a whole crumb, the sisters tended to his every desire. Crowdie bastard living like a lieutenant: daily rasher of Cèilidh brose n’ oatcakes, dancing a jig with the Stichelton Clan; rummy bastards cut the lamb’s gut to high, stuffed it full of Parker’s oats and Yarg gelatin; runny end slopping all over his trousers. Stopcocked the coke oven, black ashy steam escaping like corpsegas. Navy captain dressed him down to his buff, stood admiring his manhood in the brass yellow waters.
Heard say he’s now living abroad in a half-room walkup with a pay-as-you-go bidet. Pissed away on whore’s trinkets and egger rum. Keeps the moths from alighting on the lamphead. Wick-end burns the bone down to knuckle. Seen a man light his self ablaze. Leapt over portside into the brassy yellow sea. Keeps the whores from flinching and making a nuisance. Christ-less heathens. Give into their infelicities. Keeps the sisters busy. Tend to their every wont and desire. His da set out to sea aboard the Mary of Bullockships. Lightening quick and easy as she goes. Left his molars under the ambry. Had to mash his oatcakes with a spoon.
Giving into his infelicities, daily rations of egg rum and soft palate biscuits, what few teeth he had requiring an ease of chewing lest he swallow a wad or spit up a whole crumb, the sisters tended to his every desire. Crowdie bastard living like a lieutenant: daily rasher of Cèilidh brose n’ oatcakes, dancing a jig with the Stichelton Clan; rummy bastards cut the lamb’s gut to high, stuffed it full of Parker’s oats and Yarg gelatin; runny end slopping all over his trousers. Stopcocked the coke oven, black ashy steam escaping like corpsegas. Navy captain dressed him down to his buff, stood admiring his manhood in the brass yellow waters.
Heard say he’s now living abroad in a half-room walkup with a pay-as-you-go bidet. Pissed away on whore’s trinkets and egger rum. Keeps the moths from alighting on the lamphead. Wick-end burns the bone down to knuckle. Seen a man light his self ablaze. Leapt over portside into the brassy yellow sea. Keeps the whores from flinching and making a nuisance. Christ-less heathens. Give into their infelicities. Keeps the sisters busy. Tend to their every wont and desire. His da set out to sea aboard the Mary of Bullockships. Lightening quick and easy as she goes. Left his molars under the ambry. Had to mash his oatcakes with a spoon.
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