The stony lanes of Knockbracken. The desolate highways of Montreux. The castaway memories of a lifetime. The crunch. The coarsened heels of a mother-woman. It’s a ditch-dive dirt-scrumpled ankle post. A morose wedging of all things pish. A grippled splish upon a pond of poo. An awful blank stare across the windshield of the ages.

Fuckin’ knockin’ the shite outta some boy. A blunt object across the back of the head. In jest like, in jest. Ingesting gestation festering filibusterer bam boom. Ba doo dop. Wangin’ it out for cash. Splashin’ out on shinguards, that’ll never see the light of day. Necessitating felicity most fine, fiver a bine, for the good stuff yus yus.

Cashbricken staffshorts even-keeled go for broke. Last night’s worry was a close one, and so the fear subsides. Climb back inside, it’s safe, ye waif. Angelic now come the hearings of a bright tone. A little shining one now made known. He’ll have to suffer, that boy. Yus yus, suffer up and down the country till you grow a beggar’s wig.

Ever be up and down the town wandering and when ye stap. Benchpost wasps all over ye till a drooling man leans near. Near-distinguishable are the slabberings spewed forth. You reply in kind and so he smiles and all is well, in the town of towntown. Then ye wander on a bit further and subtle sights ye see and smile yerself a little. Tis nice alright. Then ye wade on home with your wellyboots forgotten but the bounce is pronounced and so you avert the STARE of every passing motorist. Only a couple of weeks now. Best keep the head down. G’night.