Sackbut and Cooper

Shambling and jimmying, one leg tucked into the cove of his pant’s leg, the other pegged and tolled with varnish. Getting about and a round and over here and there was never a problem for the shamble leg man, even though his legs did buckle and heave inwards, the brass of his heels clicking the asphalt like tap shoes. ‘This is no life for a shamble leg man’ he said, ‘none whatsoever, and to think that I traded in my peg-leg for a pair of lifts and a sackbut of marbles’. The night, like a cloak and dagger, fell absentia on the shamble leg man’s head, his fontanel tilted at a most precarious angle, eyes bled white with cataracts, a sackbut of cats’-eyes folded neatly in the swales of his lap. ‘I most certainly won’t put up with this, not much longer at least, such poor manners, and these infernal clods and peas, like brass sentinels in the fop of my fob, jostling for hem and collar, such a paltry excuse for haberdashery and cooper’. Realizing that he made little to no sense, none whatsoever, he realigned the inseam of his trousers and went about his day, sackbut and peg-leg and lifts too small for his shoes.