Henry the Ninth
The inevitable meeting of the moo-cows and the bin has happened. Screams of delight, grunts of animal abandon, and a great rustling of toddlers in garbage broke Henry’s morning trance.
‘It was causally determined, given the recent state of the roads and the nagging persistence of tardiness among the idiot classes.’
‘Idiot classes? I bid you enlighten me’, inquired a Tudor Nobby, laying aside his lute.
‘Everyone but us, young Nod!’
They laughed heartily and quaffed down goblets of blood red blood.
‘Morrow is the skinning of the Sinister Eyeballs, Sire.’
‘Tis, by Splurge, Noddy-doodle-dude! So heavy on the prune tincture, what say you’
‘By March Hare’s Day, your dreams of the home made black pudding will be realised.’
‘Indeed, you poor stooge. Indeed’
Bodies and domestic waste filled the Cut.
There was not another collection for two weeks.
Grimbeau 