Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

offered the squittery slime of her arsegut and the slithery spunkings of her force-pump, as well as the no less fuck-smoothed dumb-oracle, her blub- ber potato-trap. To me ! To me ! To me all the juicy gamahu- ches of the morning ! To me the fucks that give one zest for lunch ! To me the buggerings of the early afternoon, and the bub and armpit joys that occupy the wise from five o’clock to dinner. To me the nameless rap- tures of the evening and the night ! O fuck- ing ! What fun you are ! “ Sweet, when the morn is grey ; Sweet, when they clear away Lunch, and at close of day Possibly sweetest.” But I am forgetting. The passion of the wild Bedawi for his untiring steed is indeed a theme for the noblest of poets. Here — he indicated the camel Hassan with an airy wave of the hand, at the same time with incomparable dexterity directing the vast battering-ram into, and engulfing it within, his pile-ridden and fistula-riddled bung- hole — is a camel. See with what joy he plunges in my turd-pipe ! How his love-lobes bang against my bum ! How he spurts his Scotch broth into my very colon ! — By the way, did I ever tell you how the K..g of E.....d missed his coronation ? — I shook my head and the tip of my Timothy-tool in negation. It was thus, continued the Archbishop, while the camel still played the part of Captain Shaw, a type rather of true love let loose than kept under, sending his foaming cream, like an adver- tisement of a shaving-stick, into the steaming guts of the enthusiastic celibate. King E....d, while yet P....e of W...s, had, as you know, indulged in every form of vice. But no ! Though the plug-tail of Fred [44]