All us sinners chummed like gulls a gaggle,
a scatter, cupping back Friday and Saturday
over stewed beef. Heady months-cum-years.
We struggled over our own motility and the
murphy bed, heavy and awkward. Where to
put our hands? Chimed the bereted snapper:
No oglers. Jump fists in. Shock and clobber.
Slum-baked wood floors groaned, holding up
the grumble-gut snarks to rabble laughs. Tasked
at sad tests. Litmus and lime. The gin-caddy
thumbed our sci-thatched goggler (like loogies
before, or, later, drool): shake the conch, coax
a slight sound out, or leave apple cores hoarded
on an acidic Sudbury beach, and puked the sink bin.