Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

she let go, and my man-molasses, my posterity pudding if you prefer the phrase, soaked up into her womb, and she conceived and bare a host of children 36 days later. In vain I stood by her bed- side, fucked them to death as they emerged, and threw them aside. I was beaten. I will not dwell upon this painful subject : suffice it to say that no less than 175 (all girls, with an admixture of mon- key and slug from maternal impressions — infidelities I had long suspected without being able to prove) — were actually born and our reputations would have been ruined but for the cunning and resource which has ever brought me through the most difficult and adverse circumstances. I bribed the Pope’s valet to conceal them in his Holiness’ jerrypot : when he perceived them, he supposed himself to be seized with a return of the Horrors, and gave orders for their instant destruction. When he learnt the trick that had been played on him, his anger was swallowed up in relief that it was not D.T. this time, and the humour of the thing striking him, he laughed and made me an Archbishop. Thus God can in his wonderful Work- ings bring good out of apparent evil. I had wished to dwell for awhile upon the de- lightful memory of my Leila’s fly-by-night as it ap- peared in the all too brief period of her pregnancy. Imagine the gradual heaving up of her greasy belly under one’s very fuck, the constant tickling of one’s thumb of love by the innumerable fingers new-made of the many foetuses, the curious slime that filled her, and floated one away into dreams of bliss not to be described ! Yes, it was a glorious time — but, look here, young fellow, this talk is luring me away from my archiepiscopal duties. I have a meeting of bishops to bugger this after- noon : surely you have enough copy for a volume : I would suggest your slinging your hook and get- ting that chancre treated : I am sure you will say [76]