Weakfish and Molasses

Porter blacker than molasses, the evidence is in the pudding. The man in the hat liked Galba panfrys on his toast: oleo el dente avec froid. 27 ½ hours left, and counting, until the trees start sing arias on low. Grandmamma’s mincemeat pies, porkpie hats and granddad’s Brigham billowing smoke bluer than the bluest blue sky. Saint Albert and the Corrupter Sims, 27 ½, her feet splayed sideways; meniscus, wish and Stilton. Thoughts are useless things, thought the man in the hat, ‘so I’ll take a crab cake and a jarful of Paddy’s Bold’. The evidence is in the porkpie, black currant and poppyseed. The proofing is in the mincemeat, red apples and pears au jus. The man in the hat dreamt he was dreaming, his eyes inside out, staring at a blanched spot on the ceiling. Dreams are for the restless; he thought dreaming, abeyance culpa mea veritas. Saint Albert and the Corrupter Sims, two pleas in a scrod, crab cakes and mincemeat and granddad’s Brigham billowing bluer blue. ‘Thinking takes far too much energy’ he thought, ‘and the headaches are merciless indeed’. ‘Give me a strong cup of bitters and a bowlful of scrod, a stout kick to the noggin and one of me grandmamma’s poppyseed cakes’. ‘What about me pigglywiggly legs, have you no mercy for a weakfish waif?’ Dreams are the things that waifs are made of, Stilton, weakfish and molasses.