Unpopular Mechanics

There’s a boiler-room man kicking and biting at my skullcap skull. Soon enough he’ll kick the bateaus out of me, then I’ll be nothing more than a measly crumb of nothing. If I could sleep I surly would; but as I can’t, I’ll accept the kicks and bites and call it a day. All the crabbing and crumbly crumbling is taking its toll on me, dare say I dare say. Perhaps I’ll thumb-through my collection of Unpopular Mechanics, the yellow ones next to the Dysfunctional Geographic my great granddad left behind when he jumped ship, castaway into the roiling roil of the roil roiling. Maybe not maybe. I could don my friar’s toque and call it a morning, leapfrogging into the day; but a lass like her would have nothing to do with me, measly crumb of nothing. I could pay witness to the Witness and call it an afternoon; but that’s silly, halfcocked. I could smoke another haberdasher’s-made cigarette and call it even; or not. Fucking halfcockiness and boiled ham, a side of Paddy’s allsorts and bother, just so I can keep up with the tinkers’ yawl; but then again who gives a whooping cough about a yawing tinker’s cuss. Dysfunctional Mechanics, not for the fen of heart and crestfallen; or a tinker for that matter.