Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

[56] CAPITULUM VIII NO ! I SHALL not transcribe the songs the Arch- bishop sang. They were ill-suited to your dainty ears, my girls ! No ! In vain you strip your bellies and show me canoodles with gleet and pus a- dripping, and your dung-stuffed clyster-pipes cho- ral in my ears and grateful to my smell. No, I say ! I am adamant, iron ! You may twist yourselves into the randiest positions you know ; you may cuddle my crimson chitterling till it chirps, soars and spurts into the blue Heaven of God : but I will N O T corrupt your morals with those degrading and sin- ful songs. I will never transcribe a word or a sylla- ble that the most modest woman need blush to hear : I will never be a party to the ruin of one in- nocent child-soul. Cunts ! I protect you ! Nugs ! avaunt ! Come not near the pure girls and women for whom I write this book, the decent sayings of a godly light of the Church. So let us gloss over the temporary lapse from politeness of the saintly old man — let us excuse one whose only fault was that he was born at a date when folk were less fastidious ! — and let him return to the quiet and uneventful autobiography with which he has so far pleasantly and inoffensively regaled us. Ah ! You would, would you, you penny-a-peep flapper ? Well, little girls will be little girls. Adam fell for less than this — Oh ! If you suck so I shall go mad — Stop, for God’s sake ! This was the song.