Aubergine scented aspersions cast candidly at cowboys in their hoods. Climbing off the curtains was a codger ably assisted. Threw the head up in fit of pique, grand now he was. There was a gleam off his moustache that could readily be mistaken for a stick that he’d gone and lit. Conundrums were his specialty, and chief occupation; though he may have at served as an apprentice to his lordship once ago. 

As the cobwebs were in deep need of sweeping, he crawled walls in a covert fashion. More than admissible was the manner demanded of all present. Idiosyncratic perambulations were marked by the deft thudding of a brick wall boot. We were committed, for better, for worse; for the weekend.

A cap wearing would be taxi drivel, my mistake, or rather yours for judging. He fancied a cocktail and sunk the boat, bathtime was over. 

There was a pile of crisps sitting, cigarette butts strewn in a celebratory sequin. His favourite detested cup sank dreams through pish streams of ‘our brand’ liquor, licensed now the premises; a thorough back and forth had seen them fit for publication in literary articles; fitting.

Taxi drivelled in through trenches submerged as he was, sex indeterminable so far as suggestion allowed. There were a few faces strewn also in sofas, pinioned between cul de sac cushions seemingly, as the pigeon cooed his last.

Comfort in the moronic was blinding the villains, binding them also in turn. It was a spectator sport so to be given an exhibition, blinding leaps in the interminable absence of porch parked beardos. 

Nostrils aflame in the golden orange tinsel, I’d to debeard him on sight, seeing that his out wasn’t fit for streeting. Steerage feared for wherewithal without, and with that taxi drivelling the orchestra was consigned.

Two hoods had been on the pounce, straggler in tow. A haggard gent harrowed us all the way home before breakfast. The two of them gestured in turn as was their custom, straggler spent. Except that he didn’t have any to begin with.

Brusque brown baps were on the counter inquisitive. The games requested some nutrients as an observation pertaining to some daft numptie.

But, because of a time honoured tradition (mostly forgotten,) a codger had to be slain.

Exhorted he effusively, understated in some hip effort. Streams of smoke spilled from out his elbows, contorting the sleeves in a manner most unsavoury.

A curled mugger was fisting a post, a-bop in time with the spirits seeping. Afterwards he’d to shower their heads with a bucket of rain kept back for punishment.

Pincushions perfected the droop of a grime ridden witch. Another would be druid fenced lampposts as a recreational means of increasing nonsense in the brains of water-fed sponge cakes.

The human jigsaw was vibing in a cosy clothes horse, at the cost of a cobblestone.

With a complete disregard for ironic postulations, drivelled he as a dervish, whirling anon.