The next day the sky, crashing, fell earthward. The man in the hat headed for the park behind the aqueduct where he’d heard a slab of the sky had fell fallen. He put on his spelunker’s cap and hightailed it, his boots kicking up dust, what remained of the sky teetering on the brink, a titlark coo-cooing in the branches of a tree, ‘…coo-coo…’ yipped the man in the hat, ‘…coo-coo, coo-coo, coo…’ A crackling autumn wind stung his eyelids. He opened and closed his eyes, his nose weepy with snot. ‘…what have we here…?’ he said. Darting in and out of the deadfall, coattails trailing behind him like a caudal switch, the littlest dogman scampered, a look of terror on his face. The titlark, billeted in the highest tree branch, coo-cooed, the littlest dogman scarpering the deadfall, the man in the hat rubbing the rot and bleb from his eyesore eyes.
The sky, fallen, cast a pal on the earth, neither dogman, titlark or a measly soul thinking otherwise. In the treetops a pipit signaled the all-clear, the littlest dogman running in circles, the man in the hat trifling with the idea of buying a new rain slicker and a boatman’s cap. Stowed away in his greatcoat pockets (with his jellies and porkpie suckers) was a tube of Cruppers’ all purpose liniment, the cure all for chest colds and barker’s throat. ‘…hail be to the fallen sky…’ shouted the robber, having snuck up behind the man in the hat, the pipit and the littlest dogman. ‘…spare the dowel, spoil the infant…’. The man in the hat looked at the littlest dogman and said ‘…such quair nonsense…’ the dogman, blithely, cocked his head towards the going away sun and whispered ‘…a bellyful of I’d say…’. Both men turned a gut, dismissing the robber with a harrumph. (As far as the world knows no sky has fallen earthbound from the sky; and if it does, the shamble leg man will be the first to know).
The sky, fallen, cast a pal on the earth, neither dogman, titlark or a measly soul thinking otherwise. In the treetops a pipit signaled the all-clear, the littlest dogman running in circles, the man in the hat trifling with the idea of buying a new rain slicker and a boatman’s cap. Stowed away in his greatcoat pockets (with his jellies and porkpie suckers) was a tube of Cruppers’ all purpose liniment, the cure all for chest colds and barker’s throat. ‘…hail be to the fallen sky…’ shouted the robber, having snuck up behind the man in the hat, the pipit and the littlest dogman. ‘…spare the dowel, spoil the infant…’. The man in the hat looked at the littlest dogman and said ‘…such quair nonsense…’ the dogman, blithely, cocked his head towards the going away sun and whispered ‘…a bellyful of I’d say…’. Both men turned a gut, dismissing the robber with a harrumph. (As far as the world knows no sky has fallen earthbound from the sky; and if it does, the shamble leg man will be the first to know).
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