Fig Pot Scamp

Fig pot scamp. Jar pig bin. Hoop rag prune. Dust! Dust! Shrimp tag flap. Pod grease lawn. Championship grub. Dust bag nitwit. Kettle flail gust. Gas and gas and gas. Leopardskin hat. Dim dim bulb. Awful flies. Shredded wheat. And Miss Jessel opts for Special K. What will rotate? Is there a pin? Corks in the bath and the flagstones a-crumbled. Vim vim vim! Water on the brain. Shovels in the hallway. Give me my slop. Hot boiled soup. Worms in the muck. Spin pop glug. Football results. Forty-nine nil. Arnold Bax. Triumph of the will. Ski slope smudge. Everything a blur. Wool snagged in hoist. Ducks. Fops. Gravy. Stand at ease. Go to seed. Into the cake. Glum but electric. Soil and sand. Gummed-up snippers. Bowls. Wells. Pips. Eight-eight cranks in a cold church hall. Let them be put away into sheds. They sign their names all Miliband. Goats may bray when their tails are yanked. Often I have seen the squibs. The candles and the firelights. The dicky bow and the wolverine. The musset and the pamplemousse. Stow me away on a frightful ship. Where, where is the Gropius pit? The eyes of Donald Pleasance. The crisp man’s plod. Up boot Fulke jab! Up parp bung jack! Venn and pie chart. Map o’ Holland. Custard and vaseline. Inscape offshore. Head gone wry. Mark of the beast. Padding, padding, pink forlorn. All grotesque on Tom’s bonce. The fruit sectioned. The scales torn away. Jutland, that was it. Paste horn coathanger. Lip stripe bloom. O vile, vile, popsicle madder. Comes to a crunch. Spills out in glory. A daughter with a limp. A simpleton and his pebble. Yeast will out. Saws will saw. Stumbling in the glitter. Mocking the harpies. They said he had no shoes. They said he had no socks. They stole into the corridor with blisters and the baize. Dance a hoo-cha. Lop lop lop! Go to the ghost now. It has a phantom hob. Sock on the jaw. Ice in the veins. You know how to whistle, don’t you? No. Never could. Never did. Never never never. Cross my heart. It’s like a pin-cushion. Bold and fat and loud and beating, beating, beating. Hear it thump. Like God. With his trident. And his burlap bag o’lard. On his mountain top. With his mighty beard. Screeching. Like an owl. Unobserved. Unseen. Except by the light of the lamp. It was a Tilly Tilly Tilly Tilly Tilly lamp. Smashed into a thousand pieces. Count them one by one. Into the Ark. Under the bridge. Sinking. Forty fathoms deep. The deep blue sea where squids cavort. And monsters dwell. I know, because I dwell there too.

2 thoughts on “Fig Pot Scamp

  1. Apropos of nothing, it occurrerd to me that now that England has become a glacial hell, we might re-read some of Mr. Key’s more ice-oriented tales.

    I started thinking which ones these might be, there’s “Ice Chaos” from last year. “Good King Wencasslass Impersonation Incident”, and I remember a very old story about how to make gruel includes a sensible warning about the symptoms of piblokto. Are there any other icy stories that I’ve missed?

    Yours in Christ,


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