Prude Joyced

Prude Juice

An electric clock tocked code riddled talk.  Ticks mated with tacs, tic-tac progeny like cake in Kendle.  Well-minted no one gave a flying proud Anglo-Saxon censored by chastity belt. When ticks blindly follow three mice’s fate tock follows tock follows tock follows tock. Tock time is eerie time to be off to the Flying Dutchman for sanity treat company in name for company abandoned.  No white whale oil better beef hooked. Bud was no wiser brewers’ droop no pleasure now beer was fresh out of fuggy muggy Irish talent with clarity no longer a pint of plain behind the welcome of an opened pub door firmly shut against the rain of English summer talk of the ball swinging to Indian rout Tendulkar named Anderson’s Bunny limping home short of the hundred hundreds sadly not six hundred Chiltern Hundreds of fiddling Members.  A screw turned the name of a good one barred by prissie privvy lit with prude not worth dousing with filtered ale.  Take the famed trip round a portrait traced in Dublin streets by the artist as a young man and read the words that must not be spoken adding you and what a hat pin used in several angers makes love to you all in my distance keeping in the phrase not with someone else’s preferring more honest company the pub whore content I’ll listen and buy liquid compensation for what others think she’s for a good one of and I reserve for the smart nob at crease not her crease chin begging for the ball’s tune to bring him down a peg before a shaping one edged to slip’s safe hands round gleaming cherry bled stains in shining on my creams for swing.  The player always good one’s the gentleman turning gentle man himself finding a professional down-at-heel taking the profane in the sacred to feed habit.  The shame is in barring words when mannered world exploits with charm language truly rotten from those who get nice and warm seeing the lights in the castle  To speak with fish-wife’s mouth  is tender to reduce others to poverty prostitution in the action of the word not spoken foul.   Go on Joyce yourself.  Because you know you’re not worth one.