The Babcock brothers made trilbies, fedoras and billycock hats, the billycock being one of their most valued sellers. The man in the hat, now aware of the billycock, went in search of the Babcock brothers, hoping as he did to purchase one of their most valued hats. Were it not for the book he’d never have known such a glorious hat existed; and exist it did, on the heads of men far and wide, all except he, but his good fortune was changing, his destiny in the hands of two brothers named Babcock.
His hat cleverly placed on his lap, the man in the hat waited for the light to turn green. Not accustom to waiting he began to whistle, Jalisco Bielsko Wadowice el Greco God bless amen. He lowered his head, moocowmoocowmoo, his feet skipping gaily, his hat sitting dashingly on the top of his head. He cooked eggs and ham, two slices of rye toast and a glass of Ogeechee orange juice. His granddad liked griddlecakes with syrup.
He worked in the cowshed ciphering the sums that appeared to him as if from God. The Belm sisters sat on a bench outside the cowshed figuring ways to get his granddad’s attention, the littlest Belm sister twirling a baton, the biggest running a comb through her hair. The Babcock brothers sped past, the eldest brother waving from the passenger side window. The littlest dogman, crouching, yelled ‘…Où est le MOO MOO de vache…?’ the brothers gunning the corner at breakneck speed.
The shamble leg man let out a yip, his foot caught between the lamppost and the curbside. ‘…onde é o MOO MOO da vaca…?’ yelled the littlest dogman, his face red with blood. The alms man sat cross-legged in front of the library waiting for the sky to fall crashing into his lap. To the right of him, his mouth rounded into a perfect O, sat the legless man, the pressure in his head exceeding 227½ kilopascals. ‘…why…’ wept the legless man, ‘…why me…?’
His hat cleverly placed on his lap, the man in the hat waited for the light to turn green. Not accustom to waiting he began to whistle, Jalisco Bielsko Wadowice el Greco God bless amen. He lowered his head, moocowmoocowmoo, his feet skipping gaily, his hat sitting dashingly on the top of his head. He cooked eggs and ham, two slices of rye toast and a glass of Ogeechee orange juice. His granddad liked griddlecakes with syrup.
He worked in the cowshed ciphering the sums that appeared to him as if from God. The Belm sisters sat on a bench outside the cowshed figuring ways to get his granddad’s attention, the littlest Belm sister twirling a baton, the biggest running a comb through her hair. The Babcock brothers sped past, the eldest brother waving from the passenger side window. The littlest dogman, crouching, yelled ‘…Où est le MOO MOO de vache…?’ the brothers gunning the corner at breakneck speed.
The shamble leg man let out a yip, his foot caught between the lamppost and the curbside. ‘…onde é o MOO MOO da vaca…?’ yelled the littlest dogman, his face red with blood. The alms man sat cross-legged in front of the library waiting for the sky to fall crashing into his lap. To the right of him, his mouth rounded into a perfect O, sat the legless man, the pressure in his head exceeding 227½ kilopascals. ‘…why…’ wept the legless man, ‘…why me…?’
1 comment:
what a vivid scene.
Post a Comment