Gromwells Von Julep

Strumuwell Bracket did paperwork for James A.A. Joyce with an ivory cusped pen and an inkpot made from racing stubs and lard. He scribbled and penned letters-ex-epistolary, Fidel’s get you ten stamps and God’s fleetingness’ O so, so he said, saying he said from front to back round juniper heckle von Jackleg, that paltry no-do-gooder with a nose like a rotten cabbage, sad bastard bustard braggart coalmen stave Tilley’s boater upside the brow-comb of his head where nary a bulb or egg-stay lay settled or in lieu. It’s been some time, more so than some, since we ate coke-sausage tripe with blue-cheese and custard. Me mama made wee tiramisu in a doable-boiler, then relayed a lemon sauce on the crisp outer ends, some more brittle and crackled then more. Then with fists fustics and tinctoria she made me swear up and down that I won’t nor wouldn’t tell a sole or me papa who sat rereading the paper in a potter’s smock and no tie or socks. Time’s a filching, said Gromwells Cliffy, where that rotter Buell made a henpecks a million on hedges and orange julep.