Hotchpotch and Finfish

‘Don’t tug at him like that’ said the alms man, ‘you’ll rip his head off’. The clochard drew in a deep breath, held it for a second, and then exhaled, a clot of tripe forming a bubble on the tip of his tongue. ‘He’s going into shock by dimity’, cackled the alms man, ‘pull up his head’. The man in hat pounded on the clochard’s breastplate with both fists and then turned him on his side, gently resting his head on the blacktop top. ‘He’s surely fucked’ said the alms man, ‘surely fucked’. A crow spun out from beneath the Seder’s awning caw, caw cawing, its wings hotchpotch with tar and shingles. The legless man hollered ‘finfish jag, the bottoms falling out’ and leapt up and down on his stumps like a whirling dervish.