In A Cave By The Sea ...
 
A gripping tale of passion, chivalry and silly names. This story was first featured in the original edition of "Momp Momp Cark" The Tale Of The Fisherman's Daughters

The Tale Of The Fisherman's Daughters
Kate

In a cave by the sea there lived an old fisherman with three beautiful daughters. The eldest was called Mötley Crüe and she was very tall with large breasts and an amusing haircut. The second, Arsenal, had pointy teeth and an Elvis style quiff whilst the youngest, Waste Disposal Unit, had no hair and smelled of defrosting fridges.
Even though the fisherman was poor and crippled, blind with only one leg and no fingers and completely mad, all the young princes flocked from miles around to try and win the hands of his lovely daughters. One by one, the fisherman (whose name was Round) turned them away. He mistook them for everyday objects and didn't consider them suitable. The daughters were getting very restless.
"Let's go out and find our own husbands!" said Arsenal one wintry dawn.
"OK," said Mötley Crüe and Waste Disposal Unit enthusiastically.
They untethered the haggard mule and made their way over the rocks. They'd travelled nicely enough for twenty miles or so when they spotted a handsome prince on a fertile horse.
"My name is Pantry of Orifice," he said, "I want to take the ample-breasted Mötley Crüe as my wife." She pleasantly accepted and they rode off together.
Twenty miles later, another handsome prince arrived.
"Hello!" he shouted, a wicked yet enchanting glint in his eye, "My name is Drains of Poultry Farm. I wish to make Arsenal my wife. Her teeth are so pointy. She must be mine!"
Arsenal slithered towards him and they departed.
Waste Disposal Unit felt lonely, but then a handsome prince appeared.
"I am Lard of Binoculars," he said.
Then they got married and had three children called Durham, Point and Female Geese.

 
Polly Draperie's Larger Cupboard

Polly Draperie's Larger Cupboard
Kate

The slobbering sloth that stood beneath the window frame caught a moonlit flash of recognition when asked to do so at a party. Not only did the denim rash that spiked the grey expanse of Tasmanian water speak the language of the dominant natives, but carnivals in their prime would slide menacingly towards their wart-ridden behinds, laughing and cackling like the first sweet splash of a stream in a horticultural exhibition.
Eggs played the sweetest tune, humming their hearts out in morbid sympathy. Eventide would commence and the fruit people were embarking on Roman Blind's tapestries. Never one to feel sorry for himself, his beard defied gravity. The pale-faced creatures on their way around the outer wall creaked and howled and spat dust into snakes that bulged eyes on sticks when rummaged by maintenance.
What sound was made when the archer clanked his fertile missionary?
What was the sight that was confronted by the serial-approached lizard?
Now, and forever clothed from heart to skin the slobbering sloth digs ancient watches from the wobbling wall.
The end is nigh, the end is nigh.

Fortunately, I live next door to a clinical institution.

 
 
January 1995
 



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