Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

fuck-sodden mouth of the Imperial buttock-broker appraised my all but succumbing senses that my job was over. At the moment of collapse I had been saved from utter rout and open shame. John Brown had come back to his own. And his own received him ! Chuckled the Archbishop at the conclusion of this historic sec- tion of his memoirs, during the recital of which I had been so excited that I had repeatedly been obliged to solicit the favours of the Ecclesiastic’s beautiful goat, whose congenial jelly-bag completed my practical sympathy with the story. Come ! Continued the Archbishop, we will stroll across to the camel. My arse is thirsty for a drain of fuck as ever your Fleet-Street throats are for a two of Scotch. I will only remark, to round off your chapter, that Her Majesty has ever been sensible of my ef- forts to please, and that it is due to her that I owe my introduction to a clerical career, and the proud station in the realm which I, although by birth a foreigner, have the honour to occupy. But my farter burns for a pisser, and I see Hassan (so I call the dear beast) has a stand like the tower of Pisa. Come, and I’ll suck you off as we go. [41]