Everything's a fucking travesty

Left out in the cold by old maid-servant Fraulein Schnettle (the other one is on vacation), your poor old Betsy tripped, skidded and slipped like eight times on the dusty, icy ground carrying home her big kettle of wonton soup the short distance back from the nearest Chinese Food Plantation just up the road.

Being drug by the chain around her from the horse carriage up in front (hands free, to carry the soup), she fell to the ground burning her curds away, and ripping the joints anew of the fingers she injured weaks ago... The fingers on her knitting hand are sore now again (rather sore), and the knitting, oh how it suffers

tweaking the pain (oh, tweaking away), when she sprained those tender digits but weeks ago after Thomas Jefferson had his way with Ms. Betsy in the night (when no black wimmens were calling). She can do knitting no more tonite, this night. :'(




And so I leave you with this,
transcription from a book
laying around, in the olden tongue
of a dusty old tome:





Alle zum Schafbrot, cum Schafbrot
in meine Lieben und was noch,
Wohin?! (nee, 'Whither?!')
Der Herdboden atmet
und mein Hand ist müde.
(Immer müde.)
...