Daisy wept tears of white grape that day the man with the wilting thragg signed her up to the campaign for shorter possetts. She had gotten her thrumble pads in a twist, to be sure, but the lettuce was twice her weight, two threepence ha'penny a bunch and at least three times again.
"Why must they always end up afterwards?" she cried from the pit of her sole.
It didn't half whiff, it has to be said.
But the bumhop was closer than folk would warrant it and they had to duck out of site, or so those saucy mallards would have us believe.
You never can tell in the country.
No comments:
Post a Comment