Crawley was a hardscrabble man, one of those know it alls that never lets the last word sit. Crawley came by way of over there, out past the five mile fence that kept cretins out and halfwits in. Crawley knew the shamble leg man and the alms man, he knew the owner of the Slough Gate Livery and the proprietor of the Cat-O-Nine-Tails inn. He knew how to double-knot a sloop sheet and that eating crabgrass caused biliousness. He knew about Adam and Eve and that real blood doesn’t taste like church wine. He was half-acquainted with the dogmen and partway acquainted with the man who drained the sewage trap out behind the aqueduct. He like potboiler sandwiches and tinned gravy, soft cashews and brined sea kelp. He bought most things in cans, some in tins, and everything else by the half-dozen or almost pint.
The Ballymurphy brothers came by way of Contae Cheatharlach by way of Chluain Mhór by way of Baile Haicéid by way of Fionnmhach by way of Cill Damháin by way of Muine Bheag by way of An Urnaí by way of Sean Leithgleann by way of Ráth Bhile by way of An Daire Ríoga by way of Tigh Moling by way of Tigh an Raoireann by way of An Tulach where a man with a flipper hand sang funeral dirges in the park.
Crawley was beget by Mr. J. L. Crawley and Mrs. A. J. Scaramouche. Once begotten he left home to start begetting, some 27 children with as many begetter’s. He lived with a blind dog and a three-legged cat Os Cus de Judas, by way of nowhere and everywhere. The man in the hat met Crawley sniggling eels out back of the aqueduct, the man in the hat sniggling a hatful, Crawley a half-dozen, almost a pint, his blind dog sniffing the dirt where the dogmen had camped then abruptly decamped, a fall of fichus trees scattered along the bank of the aqueduct fallen. Never again was Crawley seen, neither by the man in the hat nor beast nor fowl.
The day broke through the clouds like a ball kicked through the goalposts, no one save the alms man awake to see the red scarlet sky rising up from beneath the brown dirt of the world. Days like these brought with them no sunshine or warmth, just pork shoulder grayness and the chill of a thousand ages. What measly sun there was, and measly and puny it was, was caught in a trap of gray clouds, unable to shine glimmer or beckon forth. Should the sky fall, which it might given the lay of the horizon, it would fall falling into a brown stain of brown dirty world.
The Ballymurphy brothers came by way of Contae Cheatharlach by way of Chluain Mhór by way of Baile Haicéid by way of Fionnmhach by way of Cill Damháin by way of Muine Bheag by way of An Urnaí by way of Sean Leithgleann by way of Ráth Bhile by way of An Daire Ríoga by way of Tigh Moling by way of Tigh an Raoireann by way of An Tulach where a man with a flipper hand sang funeral dirges in the park.
Crawley was beget by Mr. J. L. Crawley and Mrs. A. J. Scaramouche. Once begotten he left home to start begetting, some 27 children with as many begetter’s. He lived with a blind dog and a three-legged cat Os Cus de Judas, by way of nowhere and everywhere. The man in the hat met Crawley sniggling eels out back of the aqueduct, the man in the hat sniggling a hatful, Crawley a half-dozen, almost a pint, his blind dog sniffing the dirt where the dogmen had camped then abruptly decamped, a fall of fichus trees scattered along the bank of the aqueduct fallen. Never again was Crawley seen, neither by the man in the hat nor beast nor fowl.
The day broke through the clouds like a ball kicked through the goalposts, no one save the alms man awake to see the red scarlet sky rising up from beneath the brown dirt of the world. Days like these brought with them no sunshine or warmth, just pork shoulder grayness and the chill of a thousand ages. What measly sun there was, and measly and puny it was, was caught in a trap of gray clouds, unable to shine glimmer or beckon forth. Should the sky fall, which it might given the lay of the horizon, it would fall falling into a brown stain of brown dirty world.
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