Pullman's Lager to Salve the Stain

Mostly I think of gemstones lips, a bower-rag of wooly warmth. Scone-flat palm turned heath narrow (I wish I dreamt of fairies and children’s smiles, sun and rain) where Biggs shone its glisten light. I smell the anise-root of scalloped skin, braids of wild cherrystone, a (tinker’s tankard) of Pullman’s lager, crackle lime and hawker’s spit, Biggs cinching mansard-peg (I wish I slept in Browning Manor, cuckold cold, a bower-rag to stave the hole). Sluice offal down the swirling wail, Abbott’s flue the spigot shut, tamping spirits, bread and Paxton (I wish I dreamt of fairies and children’s smiles, sun and rain) cinch taut the mansard-peg, a bower’s-rag to salve the stain.