I’ll have a pint of Brown and an Old Coffle, and make it quick; I have a landau waiting in the farthing lot. Smelly cabaña, that place is a sty for sore eyes, so it is. Last time I saw Fulsome he was tacking jacks to the bedstead drawers, slipper-footed and low on Oyez of Ole. ‘Sum things just aren’t worth the bother’ he said. I stood there, there over there, not here or over there, there, but there, right here there, and smiled, ‘you’ve got to be kidding, you besotted crapper, nary a sum nary a Doolittle have you, here there or anywhere’. Folsom Fulsome attired in red black red black tartan and a will-o-the-wisp hat, brim-side turned down, fleetingly said, ‘dare say I say nary a Doolittle or a sum have I, eyesore and Eyre and albumen on a shingle’. ‘Must be so be it dearest James’ birthday, sad bastard Eyre, patchy-eyed and inkpot slurry squids’ jack, and all that scribbling and mad-hatter Bucket threatening to defenestrate from yon cowslip yonder yon’. TX’s a strange whorled we lives in, and getting madder bye the by, so it is it is.
