THE GIMLET TRIUMPHS AGAIN

The ageing nibbler was always amazed by the reasons his gimlet came up with for not brushing her spanglers. 
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!" 
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.