Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

a Teacup, my blessed little bag-of-tricks, was ever on the qui vive for a punk’s cuntlet, and a good old go at Cully-shangy. But now — He broke off and shed a silent tear. Reaching for a honey-pot, by which I here mean an actual jar of real china con- taining the saccharine produce of the really truly bee, he dipped his nervous nilnisitando into the glucose mass, and withdrawing, leant back and wearily chewed ginseng, while he cooled his throat with a strong infusion of Cantharides in old brandy. I am not what I was, he grumbled. These tales of my youth weaken me. Since the Countess called — rot her rasp ! — I have grown weaker, and I doubt if Leila herself could wake the old fuzzle for an hour or so. The flies were by this time a seeth- ing mass upon his manly master-member ; they fed like coffin-worms at a lady’s eyes. The sad soul stiffened ; Captain Standish was himself again. This is an excellent method, explained the Archbishop ; I have known it to succeed even in the direst ex- tremity. When pross and prugge have done their dirtiest : when jill and jomer have given up the job : when Abbess and Artichoke have abandoned the article in derision : then has Beelzebub come to the rescue, and Father Abraham has believed the yarn about Isaac. Now, while I feel restored, I will ask you to accommodate me in your turd-trap, and I will sing you beautiful songs about the time when I was young. He was on my back before I could reply, and the fetid fuck-fritters of the foul- flip-flapped Father frizzled in my reeking-rectum. [55]