Bog Myrtle & Peat

Picture me thusly, oh dearly beloved; curled up on my oggy knocky and taking a break from the aggle-culture as I sometimes finds it. Stuck on peaceful thoughts of glad tidings and gumdrops to all men, I watched the golubs flying back and forth from their sheddywed like lewdies off a-rabbiting in the big, big town. In general terms and speaking plainways, I don’t mind them coming and going as they will – and why should I? It’s sometimes fun to watch them roo-kooing, special when the devotchkas are fillying up to the chelloveck birdies in the hope of a quick in-out. And not long after that, there’s eggywegs, and malenky chickledees which grow from nothing to something in the time it takes to say chepooka. It does me good to see the circle of life revolvulating; a power of good, my little brothers.

It was raining no small amount on this particle day, and the golubs had confined themselves to barracks. I could see them blittering on the handleabras, but not much gas for a watcher at the okno. Then plainly as it pains me to relate, up comes a bolshy bolt of brown and white distress from out of the plurr and into the rafters. Being so much faster on the uptake than your friendsome narrator, you’ll have long since known what that portold; a bezoomny treat of a perry-pelatnik, dressed in her wickedest ploomalooms. Now that had me looking; zoobies on stalks; knuckles white as a tass of the old moloko. HERE WE GO! I said loudly and with confidence.

The golubs were up in a fret like rice at a wedding, and out they came in a poogly tumble, frat-frat-frat, never caring for the percy-potation. It was every golub for himself, but the perry-pelatnik wasn’t for twiddling thumbways. She hooked herself upon one of the panickins, and such nails she had on her jonkillated platties; like clockwork britvas, they were. She bound herself on the golub’s back, and what bird and bird combineth, let no man cast asunder. Then down they came from the sheddywed roof, heading floorways from skyways and no mistake. There was a bite of the bitva in that golub – he kept schtum and did… well, he didn’t do very much, my brothers, but he blazed his glazzballs wide as cancer trays and commenced a steady gasping – I’ll say that for him, and not a slovo more. The perry-pelatnik seemed to love this though, and she wore a look on her litso fit to make you creech – glazzies in the very height of sholtiness and mad as a thrice cut snake.

And without even giving that golub the decency of proper send-off, she made a start on the munchety-crunch. She flossed the shop with downykins and slit whatever cables came to hand in a right-royal-razrez. The red, red krovvy came up choodessny from the move-machines, and all the while, her making out that she was only doing it for the twenty-to-one. Five abnormal minutes passed in the bitva, with the perry-pelatnik going rightways-for-alldays, and the garden in which that golub nurtured his care was slowly rendered barren. He was only heading bedways, then sleepways for a spot of the permanent. And he was long upstairs by the time that his gulliver was opened up clean as the King himself might crack the top of a boilington – and all the smudgy numnum ready for lapping in the shell.

I’ve given you all I can, little brothers. Now tell your friends that if they’re in the market for violence, there’s horrorshow scenes to be viddied out here in Bog’s creation – just as Arthur Schop – who’s your uncle and mine – yes, just as Arthur Schop foresaw. And it would be of benefit to every-man-jill of us to peg ourselves to a chair (now and then) with our glazzie-covers held openwise and forced to watch nature docs for hours at a time, with all the rotten majesty of redness from toothipeg to claw. We don’t need cities for the dratsing, boys; if an espresso-shot of the good old-fashioned is what you crave, I commend thee to lift up thine eyes to the wild and verdant places.

Nadsat borrowed from Anthony Burgess and returned damaged, with urgent and obvious appy polly logies.