Mehta Does and Mehta Did

Mehta ate her fill of soda-biscuits Mehta did and Mehta she does the dandiest things with ball-string and bland-pudding and peach cobbler corset-knotted round the mousiest part where the apron-strings cinch the pushcart of her hips, where wee babies and fealties and toes and finger-nubs red as beetroot peek peek-a-boo through the savoury seed of her woman’s-part. Atcham she has these swivel-pin hips what’re made for plopping wee-ones down the drainage-pip, sad Soddy bastard never saw it coming, hit hitting Atcham in the fontanel just below the naval-port where mommy’s catgut kept him well aired and fed.

Mehta wore those sots of slacks what’re made from mutton-hide and bustle-cock, the knee-to-britches as seen on the telex when the men are away poaching kittles and malt-whaler. She has a notion bout the way the wee-ones slide sluicing down the inseam of her pitch-grave. It’s sorry sticky down where the heads crown and the blueblood sops like pot-gravy. On a count of the stink and Quigley its best to take a ball-O-malt to flush the Soddy wee bastards out from the pitch-grave. She Mehta does the dandiest things with ball-string and peach cobbler.