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it’s Dickens for dinner, bill
jenakajoffer

you’re only as sick as the company you keep
 1
and by dint of hard persuasion
 2
strong ale and bleeding
 3
your rigid perseverance has led to their
 4
entire disappearance.
 5
 
 
but not with this one, bill.
 6
 
 
he’ll arrive with a fish
 7
spawning from his waistcoat
 8
some hot negus and a penn’orth of gin
 9
those chip-tooth tales slurring over a pheasant-
 10
dressed tongue and before you know it
 11
he’s carving you like a pair of scissors.
 12
 
 
he’ll caudle your stump of meat
 13
in a basin of beef-tea and stir it
 14
with an antler of celery while you fuss
 15
over some two-penny salad
 16
 
 
and I tell you
 17
I’m no skin to make skirt with
 18
no treacle tart hanging from his yolk sac
 19
but them soporific sweetbreads’ll lull you
 20
straight into his Christmas pie.
 21
 
 
he’ll slam-dunk your blood sausage
 22
wrap you in a cabbage leaf
 23
and set you next to the calf’s head by a roaring fire
 24
then stick you in a bowl of bishop
 25
flour your belly, scald you,
 26
wring you out, hose you down.
 27
 
 
no spectator by and London all around us
 28
a sprig of poems tossed in the pot
 29
and a doughty fist in your asshole—
 30
 
 
nothing savage about it.
 31
chuck-d’s makin’ plumb pudding bill
 32
it’s what’s for dinner.
 33

14 Nov 17

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No one can tell a story quite like you.
Merry Xmas to you and Bill.
 — dax

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