“I’ll tell you a tall tale,” she wooed, “but shorter than sheep,” she waned, waxing on.
The mudsticks meddlesome in snapping fire. The oracling orb of moon in its shine.
“That day was mad, I’m sure of it! Wind washed over the fire-headed din of which the corpsèd man had somehow fortune strung,
Then singing: Ding Dong Merrily Along and other words the which haven’t made their merry way to me quite yet.”
And she bubbled in her babbling a cheerful moment so.
“Why, ’twas a song strung out like arms upon an albatross!
And perhaps it is the frothy beer and perhaps the fire fuming in its way;
But I’ll have my say, the tippled way, I’m sure of it!”
“Yes, no doubt, I’m sure, quite confident,” I mused behind a biscuit.
“Did you know he laid a skillful blade between the corridors of heart and happiness?
To the store he lent his gait but for a day until the day became a lifetime.”
Wherethen the silence brewed as willful tea, quite strong, and green like the perch of doves.
“Now I’m not sure where you’re getting, ma’am—” I curdled under bellowsome breath.
“Haven’t you heart th’unsavory word I’ve spent my moon now uttering?
I’m nigh onto death, or sleep, eitherwhich, but pay some godlike attention!”
To which I cooed with a quainting grin, begging amends, and on she went with a yarn.
“He made tents, made them fast and fat and loud.
He housed the great haven of citizen-soliders, what shredded
The furrowing Jews.
He made friends thereafter, flapping about in the wind.
But I cannot remember thewhich he liked best.”
Patting her solid on a humpsake back, I quelled her nervous relating:
“Dear woman, you’re solid sound mad, I’m loathe to admit.
But what is it they say, by the man, come this way,
The man with a talent for telling a tale of the old Jewish way?
‘Be kind in the end to your madness,’ he says.
‘Be kind in the end to your sin.'”