Pennies for the Poorhouse Poor

Had he known anyone from Nibelungenbrücke he’d have given them a cherry smile, but as this was not the case he smiled in the window, his face broken into a million pieces, a lowly chump out for a lowly walk. He had what might be called a bivalve face, cut in halves, one for each side of his head. The night before last while out on one of his lowly walks, the sky blacker than old negro pantomime, he came across a man begging for scraps, his face ragged with the nighttime cold. Stopping, heading headlong he stopped again, then started and stopped, carrying on like this until he stood face to face with the begging beggar. ‘…pennies for the poorhouse poor…’ the beggar chimed, his voice raking. A scoundrel in a brown fedora stooped, adjusted the buckle of his belt, kidskin with double-stitching, then turning tail headed headlong into the night, a foul stench cutting the air like a foil. ‘…coppers for the poorhouse poor…’ yammered the begging beggar, ‘…its never too late to pay for your sins…’. A second man, adorned in a checkered jacket with extra-wide lapels, stopped, squatted and let go with a trumpeting fart, the spool of his ass unraveling like an old sweater. ‘…alms for the poorhouse poor…’ said the begging beggar, his face clenched like a fist. A third man, decked out in a seersucker suit, a silk handkerchief stuffed in his breast-pocket, stopped, took a deep gasping breath and said ‘…whore’s whore, where have I put my watch...?’ Out from behind a cocks’-strop hopscotched Thurrock Gray, his tarweed cap tippling on the middlemost point of his head. Thinking that today was the day before The Feast of Octave of St. Camillus he inquired where he might find Monsignor Fontenay-sous-Bois, hoping to offer up his glad tidings and a loaf of Quaker-seedcake. ‘…your timing is well off…’ said the begging beggar, ‘…seedcake day is the day after tomorrow, nine o’clock sharp…’. To which Thurrock Gray said ‘…the spool of my ass is unraveling like an old sweater…’. Standing not too far off counting the buttons on his jacket the third man said ‘…whore’s whore, where have I put my watch...?’ The man in the hat, feeling that not all was lost, turned tilting in the direction of the Church of the Perpetual Sinner, and humming made his way headlong into the cheery, cheery night.