The Toilet Crows
It was a Friday, and Brother Samuel, along the cool wrought iron fencing outside the synogauge, finally succumed to the visions his aunt was having. Having circled his birthmark with a poultice and fancy ladies rouge from a Turkish merchant ship he frequented made no difference.
As the dense black wave of feathers rent him clothesless and comfortably molested, he shouted out, that his echoes might reach that open window on Lymon Street.
"My crows! My salvation! My stinkhorn of blood!" Samuel lamented.
"The stuff! The stuff!" demanded the crows, full of flesh and ball oil.
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2 comments:
Pretty good, but it could use more tits.
He's right
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