It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning, in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino. It is tonight in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

it isn’t item, in the child squad chap-gall, hemingway, in bonhomie and roach and bombastic lactic, butters fly choking her and boob place bone, coffee in like nanny gloats, suck in mine toes, forty-wind-king have a lewd jar; ninth in foreplay, quiet as a donkey vote. it is tonight in donkey’s treat, trotting side-bent, with seaweed honest spoofs, a long the cock-led cobblers, past curt-tanned firm pot, sex and trinidad, harmed moan on him, holy dress code, water culls her, dumb by ham, china dog and rosy thin tea cladded. it isn’t right, readying a nun babeless.