Stein slew

Stein slew a murder of crows with a tinker’s awl; quill-bone-curd-nebs and a Moyer's-lamb: damnably murderous good fun, not a dry eye in the house, nary a gluepot Johnston or Coe. I espied him on his jaunty-jaunt home, bevel-rake slung over rookery, a pissery of thistle and cock. He has the empting, so they say; a tincture of all-muck; poor sod, a damn fine fellow, though a sad-sack with the willows. He’d be a cheery cunt were you to offer-up a Guinness, roe-eggs on biscuits and a ball of elms-horn and banter, for the digestion and settle. Why’d you slew the murder with tinker’s awl? Because they weren’t to stop caw-cawing so I finished ‘em off, feathers bone-curd and quill, and a wee tincture of Johnston or Coe, damnably murderous good fun, nary a dry eye in the house, nor a Moyer’s-lamb gluepot or tinker’s awl.