THE LAST BALCONY (www.nemonymous.com)

We’re friends first and foremost, ne'er-be-lickits, happy as sandboys with our crop-eared velvet-runners. But we have to dodge the spamfish, witters and blub-bring brother-brutes alike and these besom-clean junk-wads should be bedded amid the daughterlings of the yeast-bitten salt-wine. Spamfish, you see, care not for the real sky's blashy, flisky giddiheads of storm where the fan-nerved earthflies flit and flounce. The enchanter's-nightshades have the tidal fidgets while their weedy cradle-clothes gather to garnish the arch pricker-roach and the girt, besmottered hog's-lard of a glibbery spamfish. I, for one, witling and weirdmonger, now flit-fold of the sea-shades, tittertotter through the giffgaffs and bugling sea-sounds of spam hell. I strip the cradle-clothes from the pricker-roach and baste it askingly, then edge towards a glibbery spamfish, swallowish and gulpswollen as I drift with the weedy sea. The spamfish escapes, blub-bring and besnuffed; it flees my eager ne'er-be-lickit tongue; it'd rather face the blashy giddiheads of the real sky than the dangers of the sea's shyfryngs and velvet runs. To go peckish for another enchanter's-nightshade of the deep sea, there's only hog's-lard and fucus for a fan-nerved wreck-fish such as I. Enough to make me swallow whole this my own spamfish with its head and tail left on.