Editor's Blog2 mins ago
Mad over Fifties Club
142 Answers
The Club is now Open.
Welcome again, friends, old and older, mad and madder.
What delights will this evening hold for us all ?
Here's hoping for a new and delicious tailcock, a bit of assiduous buttling (later as he is detained elswhere...no word of any butcher lady, though, thank goodness), an ode from the bard and news from all, of course.)
For tonight's raffle , so far I have:
A tin of Ox Blood shoe polish (unopened)
A small feather duster for cleaning small crevices
Six blue cardigan buttons (well, you don't have to use them for a cardigan, that's just where I got them)
Fifteen toilet rolls (Izal, the hard stuff...very good for comb and paper )
Welcome again, friends, old and older, mad and madder.
What delights will this evening hold for us all ?
Here's hoping for a new and delicious tailcock, a bit of assiduous buttling (later as he is detained elswhere...no word of any butcher lady, though, thank goodness), an ode from the bard and news from all, of course.)
For tonight's raffle , so far I have:
A tin of Ox Blood shoe polish (unopened)
A small feather duster for cleaning small crevices
Six blue cardigan buttons (well, you don't have to use them for a cardigan, that's just where I got them)
Fifteen toilet rolls (Izal, the hard stuff...very good for comb and paper )
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Hi all! Have parked the broomstick near the croc. He promised to keep an eye on it. Has the drought affected the moat? Too overgrown to check from where I landed.
For the ruffle I have (much to the broom's inconvenience), a redundant hosepipe, half a tube of suprglue. Not sure how to get the top off. A pair of disgusting lisle stockings (found behind a drawer) and a hardback copy of Emma, cover held together by gaffer tape.
For the ruffle I have (much to the broom's inconvenience), a redundant hosepipe, half a tube of suprglue. Not sure how to get the top off. A pair of disgusting lisle stockings (found behind a drawer) and a hardback copy of Emma, cover held together by gaffer tape.
The "G" String
The AB air tonight is thick as an Indian curry;
like every night this Castle in May I could cut it
with my wine glass, spray it with Sloopy's mace.
Over and over it would sqad heal together
like a wound, follow my click and pace of vodka's heels
down Castle Street, the home of Lady A's palace.
Oh Lady A if you could see me now
as I pump and swagger across that stage, polar cape dripping to the floor,
me in three-inch heels and a technicolor JJ G-string—
you would not wish me in a Nungate convent downing a Singapore sling.
They've made me a queen here, married me off
to a quarter bag and a pint of Percy's gin.
The old waterboatmen tend bark and splatter, rabid
at each table. I think they stay up all night
just to spite the Flumpy moon. They bring their hungry
mouths to Mamya's Buffet in the evening,
sell rotten tomatoes to trolls who don't know
what they are. Eachseadogg bald head shines plump and red.
It seems like so long ago that I modelled
for those legs outside of Big Alexanders's—
the ones over the Lie-In-King closet door that swings in, out, in, out—
the chaptabruz sculptor made me painted as petal's Mardi Gras.
I thought you might recognize them if you ever passed
with the boys, parading from sunny's Abbey to Castle Tavern,
or think them Lady A's royal feet in need of slippers.
Someday I expect to find you all here,
sitting at the Castle table between the maggiebee's rows,
fingering Ankou bones or something worse.
And in the end you will throw me a tailcock columbine,
light me a Jumbo cigarillo and take me the TV room here
Daisy Nonna's jukebox light quivers, makes us as thin as hc ghosts.
But for now, I will dance for the lardgate fat man
who sits in your place and sweats his love for me at 3 a.m.,
because only he knows I am a Bard in drag.
But there's no way, thank God, the Croc will have him in his nose-bag
The AB air tonight is thick as an Indian curry;
like every night this Castle in May I could cut it
with my wine glass, spray it with Sloopy's mace.
Over and over it would sqad heal together
like a wound, follow my click and pace of vodka's heels
down Castle Street, the home of Lady A's palace.
Oh Lady A if you could see me now
as I pump and swagger across that stage, polar cape dripping to the floor,
me in three-inch heels and a technicolor JJ G-string—
you would not wish me in a Nungate convent downing a Singapore sling.
They've made me a queen here, married me off
to a quarter bag and a pint of Percy's gin.
The old waterboatmen tend bark and splatter, rabid
at each table. I think they stay up all night
just to spite the Flumpy moon. They bring their hungry
mouths to Mamya's Buffet in the evening,
sell rotten tomatoes to trolls who don't know
what they are. Eachseadogg bald head shines plump and red.
It seems like so long ago that I modelled
for those legs outside of Big Alexanders's—
the ones over the Lie-In-King closet door that swings in, out, in, out—
the chaptabruz sculptor made me painted as petal's Mardi Gras.
I thought you might recognize them if you ever passed
with the boys, parading from sunny's Abbey to Castle Tavern,
or think them Lady A's royal feet in need of slippers.
Someday I expect to find you all here,
sitting at the Castle table between the maggiebee's rows,
fingering Ankou bones or something worse.
And in the end you will throw me a tailcock columbine,
light me a Jumbo cigarillo and take me the TV room here
Daisy Nonna's jukebox light quivers, makes us as thin as hc ghosts.
But for now, I will dance for the lardgate fat man
who sits in your place and sweats his love for me at 3 a.m.,
because only he knows I am a Bard in drag.
But there's no way, thank God, the Croc will have him in his nose-bag
