One saucer, silver. Hare bacon, very rare. Tease the meat. Lift it from the bone like the sheet from your sleeping lover. Lay it. Tempt it with butter – bad and rancid. Very rancid, lickity-tip. Leave by the door. Upon a table no higher than your knee. Leave.
Quite the worst case of scambling. A scambling indeed and a ripely toothsome scamble that aye, see – here? Mr Moths fetch for me the scambling acids. Mr Moths? My Oaf. A gentle soul. Albeit and terribly so when feeling his or my self threatened one resting and rising in the flesh and hard bone of a thirty stone and ill-murderous fiend. Look now, his hands? I had them imported at great expense from Turkia where each removed a day before death from a famed throttler it took a double pot of cunning to see them so preserved. The Throttler indeed, For the Pash his self. Or her self. I confess, your differences bore me and I, snickerly, your Doctor too! Now this scambling? These acids? Indeed and aye this will hurt.
Window-box town crier, Climbing on the ivy. Windy roof-top weathercock. War-blooded on a cold tile. Snickerly so and don’t cry, don’t cry.