14 Jan 2008

ballad. balladery. ball cock and min.

the grumble of the razor blade humbled the fine growth. the shadow filed down to a suave stain. ernest piplove splattered some stale cologne onto his rash ravished face and grinned a toothless grin into his shaving mirror. behind him the egg yolk sun shot a reflected glare into the glass unsettling the cat that sat by the fawcett. a humble day presented itself with undue fanfare and sun.
'i don't mind', said the geeky ernie, 'i have my rum and raisins to break my fast and a pint of widows finger fer lunch'.
he swung his rusty leg into the awaiting pants and straddled his gussets like a milky thief. water cascaded down from the basin and onto the floor whereupon the cat lapped at the warm foam its face filling with a tarnished frill.
the noisome tang of industry smarted their eyes as the pair stepped out into the bright buckle shine day.
'oh foer a tram to take us toward the factory gate', said ernie.
'feckle fit and flitch bick', said the cat for he had a bad limp and a vocal impediment the size of belgium.
the trams rattled a confusion of the populace forth and back each and every day and today was no different being monday.
after all.

1 comment:

Robert said...

i really admire your versatility

enjoyed this,

especially the ending