Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

Hourly bulletins were being anxiously issued by the stern and pale-faced doctors, the sole unworn males within a hundred miles. The telegraph was wearing out : troops were rushed northward : Mr B......k was mobilising his Army corps, but it was not the imagination alone of a footler that could ease the distinguished sufferer : it was solid mar- row-bone she wanted, and tons of it at that. I toddled to the bed — remember I was not yet eight years old ! Throwing a leisurely leg over the whisky-sodden mass of fat that Britons called their Q...n, I called Time ! And began. The slippery and lax bung-hole of the flatulent monarch was ill- suited to my boyish chink-stopper : but Love will find a way, and the head surgeon hastily ligatured its tapering delicacy to the protuberant and pendu- lous clitoris of the royal patient. Ten minutes later he was able to announce to the joyful crowd that the temperature had not risen further, and that under God England might owe the restored health of the nymphomaniac to the attentions of the hith- erto despised Frenchman. The news was flashed over the country, and the people breathed again. But the issue hung long in doubt. With what care did I husband the spunky torrent I lavished in such wanton profusion upon my first love, the dropsical Negress ! Drop by drop I distilled love’s essence into that clinging carnal-trap : fuck by fuck I doled out to her the resources of my boyish liver-turner : hour after hour passed in stern and heroic effort, and yet the fever was but slightly abated. The crisis was not over ! At eleven o’clock on the following morning a cheer announced the arrival of the Sc.ts G..rds, and they unstrapped me for a meal and a drink while the doomed regiment filled the breach. But the respite was of short du- ration. Thrice in the afternoon did cavalry regi- ments thunder in : thrice the corpses of them all, men and horses, were rolled down the marble [36]