series1bk2.4.3

 

On jovial coercion, prized open were my pink  fingers, while my face felt flattened in the mud, and blooded inside, but still resisting the kiss of infamous submission to witless pitted power. A sour harvest in bedraggled pride choked my gullet and poked smoke in my lungs, while my tongue had nothing to utter, adequate in statement to revoke the hateful notion of impotence at ridicule. Fool to think of things that could be done! Munching humiliation, I bide my time till the crunch will come, and I punch home with a bigger vigour the whole crass asinine rules to win.      Then even if my costume is absurd,      I'll stand repeating every single word.