A woodcock scurried sideways across the earthy brown black earth, the ground scuttling beneath its tiny misshapen bird’s feet. At exactly 3:45am the woodcock crippled crossways across the now wet brown black earth, the rainy rain having lain a blemished on the once earthy brown black earth, the once-earth the woodcock scurry-scurried across sideways crippledly. ‘I feel sickly ill’ said the woodcock with a chirp and a twitter, his neb cloistered with wet brown black earthy earth. A blindfolded chessplayer skulked sulkingly across the blacktop black, his hat cupped (like an egg-cup cup) in the outstretched palm of his handy hand. ‘Twitter chirp twitter chirp chirp’ said the woodcock cockily. The blindfolded halfblind chessplayer croaked and moaned, his feet chipping the top of the blacktop black. ‘Oh but how I abhor chirping and twitter, makes a man unaccustomed to the egg and cup feel so fragile and weakly’ said the halfblind blindfolded chessplayer, the kip of his trouser bottoms belling and ponging, the blacktop black scurvy with eggshells and skulking. The man in the hat thought all this up, this nonsense and blather, whilst waiting in queue for the hawker to begin hawking his wares and cups. A slicker of wet rainy rain left a blemish on the once-earthy brown black earth, too slick for tomfoolery and childhood pranks. At this very moment, 4:28am, the woodcock and the blindfolded chessplayer and the man in the hat went their separate ways, each with a bone to pick with the hawker, the rainy rain and a man they had yet to meet.
A magpie flew flocking across this crisscross crossly, its tiny misshapen beak wormy with tads and cableways. The hawker, who by this time had opened his wares-table, threw a handful of hooey at the magpie, missing it by a Poe’s wing. A raven black sky, a rare consign in such a havenless place, blew back the handful of hawker’s hooey, the hawker ducking behind his wares-table like a fearful muck. Cacaw cacaw went the magpie impiously, its eyes black with desecration. Wormy worms and cawing caw cawing were too much for the man in the hat, so he turned easterly and made quick. His grandmamma made magpie pie, crimping the edges with a fork, beaks and magpie feet crabbing, his grandmamma tamping them back down with the upside of her wooden spoon. He remembered his grandmamma’s feebleness, and the way she cowered when the rain fell in rainy sheets, the curtains in the kitchen window pillowing, her eyes scorned with yesterday’s bad news and tomorrow’s worries. ‘You will eat this pie, young man, or else..!’ Her mouth curled up at the edges when she scolded him, trench-lines furrowing the trebled skin above her lip. His grandmamma smoked 27½ Chesterfield’s a day, snubbing out the smoldering filter in an empty Chockfull-O-Nuts coffee tin with her thumb. As far back as he could remember, which was far indeed, his grandmamma had a smudge on her cheek, a blemish left behind from the smoldering filter of a spent Chesterfield. When he was old enough to take up smoking (that day coming on his tenth birthday surrounded by unlikable relatives and a dope sick clown with fish breath) he smoked stinky French cigarettes that came in a blue box with a winged helmet on the front.
A magpie flew flocking across this crisscross crossly, its tiny misshapen beak wormy with tads and cableways. The hawker, who by this time had opened his wares-table, threw a handful of hooey at the magpie, missing it by a Poe’s wing. A raven black sky, a rare consign in such a havenless place, blew back the handful of hawker’s hooey, the hawker ducking behind his wares-table like a fearful muck. Cacaw cacaw went the magpie impiously, its eyes black with desecration. Wormy worms and cawing caw cawing were too much for the man in the hat, so he turned easterly and made quick. His grandmamma made magpie pie, crimping the edges with a fork, beaks and magpie feet crabbing, his grandmamma tamping them back down with the upside of her wooden spoon. He remembered his grandmamma’s feebleness, and the way she cowered when the rain fell in rainy sheets, the curtains in the kitchen window pillowing, her eyes scorned with yesterday’s bad news and tomorrow’s worries. ‘You will eat this pie, young man, or else..!’ Her mouth curled up at the edges when she scolded him, trench-lines furrowing the trebled skin above her lip. His grandmamma smoked 27½ Chesterfield’s a day, snubbing out the smoldering filter in an empty Chockfull-O-Nuts coffee tin with her thumb. As far back as he could remember, which was far indeed, his grandmamma had a smudge on her cheek, a blemish left behind from the smoldering filter of a spent Chesterfield. When he was old enough to take up smoking (that day coming on his tenth birthday surrounded by unlikable relatives and a dope sick clown with fish breath) he smoked stinky French cigarettes that came in a blue box with a winged helmet on the front.
