no vowels, or only one per word (repeats permitted). Thank the Lord for y!
‘Oh, I do ask that,’ says Son, so Dad’s dividing his farm in twelfths (not sevenths), giving cash to him.
‘Wysiwyg,’ Pa says.
The lad felt this disinhibiting, and did primitivistic Philistinisms on isthmi far away, in a suburb of the big City. Not thrifty! All shillings spend on cards, food and nymphs who screeched, etc. Wild to the Nth degree.
Chronology: Spent all; hungry; GDP = Nil; took a job with a craftsman/beekeeper who kept – anathama! – pigs. Instinctivistic disliking? Yes, but needs must. Longs for pods; then God got to his psychorhythms and his senses went ping.
‘Grr,’ he growls. ‘I am a numbskull! Dad’s men feed every day. I shall go home and ask him if I can serve.’ Humbly mumbly ‘I’m not worthy, OK?’
Limping long thro’ moon’s decresence, and tho’ still a long way off, (past the cwm), seen by Dad. He runs, greets with no tsktsking, but schmaltz: kissing, giving gifts of boots, a DJ (with good stitching), gold jewellery (a ring). Lad is defenceless, happy – this is not untruthful.
Dad’s cry: ‘Let’s throw a party with taramasalata, beef, all sorts of borschts. Mmm, plus schnapps with effervescence! And a band of thesps to give us a show: the play Chrononhotonthologos. And a pygmy band playing polyrhythms, so we may sing hymns! Woo hoo! Look: syzygy… my son was lost but is here! He is living, tho’ before he had many strengthlessnesses!’
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