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An unabridgement in hen pox, sturgeon-hex, tom-fools, Bader, tossing it all in the air, and talking into a tape recorder when you think nobody is looking...
There are times when the old hen would take her pecks away and leave us for fools. I wasn't hep to the plan, but sacks of beaver-caps and stovepipe wipes had us fearing less-so; the endangerment of an encroaching aurora-roar, oaring its way up side-paddles and wires slung low over the Mampa River were good enough to keep us satiated, satisfied, and bladdered. Hopes were that the bird (named "Dick" in heather-booted Florentine wastes of tongue) would keep on with the lay, excitedly hamming out those ovarine sequences like a bunny dribbling its m&m's all March-long, but ach... too fetid a fantasy to be true! Treasons and season switches, well, the rest is on your own goad.
A bit of a summary for the year, maybe? Sit at the desk and plop horn soft paupers into rapid prattle streams... them's the moment, at least (carbuncle motiff, provided it'll acquiesce); geddit too riled and you're bound to have to go for a nicety walk/doppel-talk/and relish more trollings for 'at metaphysch that thumbs its gravy while taking the house downstairs.
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