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Thread: say anything you want!

  1. #1
    snowultra's Avatar Member
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    no polictial correctness
    i will start--------what do women do in the bathroom for so long?

  2. Lounge   -   #2
    Something Else's Avatar sex a wolf in a bag BT Rep: +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70
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    What?


  3. Lounge   -   #3
    Mr JP Fugley's Avatar Frog Shoulder BT Rep: +4
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    FIRST VOICE [ Very softly ]

    To begin at the beginning:
    It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
    Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.
    You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing. Only your eyes are unclosed, to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep. And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before-dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.
    Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dew fall, star fall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.
    Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning, in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's loft like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is tonight in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.
    Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.
    Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
    Come closer now.
    Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the coms and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.
    From where you are, you can hear their dreams.
    Captain Cat, the retired blind sea-captain, asleep in his bunk in the seashelled, ship-in-bottled, shipshape best cabin of Schooner House dreams of

    SECOND VOICE

    never such seas as any that swamped the decks of his S.S. Kidwelly bellying over the bedclothes and jellyfish-slippery sucking him down salt deep into the Davy dark where the fish come biting out and nibble him down to his wishbone, and the long drowned nuzzle up to him.

    FIRST DROWNED

    Remember me, Captain?

    CAPTAIN CAT

    You're Dancing Williams!

    FIRST DROWNED

    I lost my step in Nantucket.

    SECOND DROWNED

    Do you see me, Captain? the white bone talking? I'm Tom-Fred the donkeyman... we shared the same girl once ... her name was Mrs Probert...

    WOMAN'S VOICE

    Rosie Probert, thirty three Duck Lane. Come on up, boys, I'm dead.

    THIRD DROWNED

    Hold me, Captain, I'm Jonah Jarvis, come to a bad end, very enjoyable.

    FOURTH DROWNED

    Alfred Pomeroy Jones, sea-lawyer, born in Mumbles, sung like a linnet, crowned you with a flagon, tattooed with mermaids, thirst like a dredger, died of blisters.

    FIRST DROWNED

    This skull at your earhole is

    FIFTH DROWNED

    Curly Bevan. Tell my auntie it was me that pawned the ormolu clock.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Aye, aye, Curly.

    SECOND DROWNED

    Tell my missus no I never

    THIRD DROWNED

    I never done what she said I never.

    FOURTH DROWNED

    Yes, they did.

    FIFTH DROWNED

    And who brings coconuts and shawls and parrots to my Gwen now? How's it above?

    SECOND DROWNED

    Is there rum and laverbread?

    THIRD DROWNED

    Bosoms and robins?

    FOURTH DROWNED

    Concertinas?

    FIFTH DROWNED

    Ebenezer's bell?

    FIRST DROWNED

    Fighting and onions?

    SECOND DROWNED

    And sparrows and daisies?

    THIRD DROWNED

    Tiddlers in a jamjar?

    FOURTH DROWNED

    Buttermilk and whippets?

    FIFTH DROWNED

    Rock-a-bye baby?

    FIRST DROWNED

    Washing on the line?

    SECOND DROWNED

    And old girls in the snug?

    THIRD DROWNED

    How's the tenors in Dowlais?

    FOURTH DROWNED

    Who milks the cows in Maesgwyn?

    FIFTH DROWNED

    When she smiles, is there dimples?

    FIRST DROWNED

    What's the smell of parsley?

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Oh, my dead dears!

    FIRST VOICE

    From where you are, you can hear in Cockle Row in the spring, moonless night, Miss Price, dressmaker and sweetshop-keeper, dream of

    SECOND VOICE

    her lover, tall as the town clock tower, Samson-syrup-gold-maned, whacking thighed and piping hot, thunderbolt-bass'd and barnacle-breasted, flailing up the cockles with his eyes like blowlamps and scooping low over her lonely loving hotwaterbottled body.

    MR EDWARDS

    Myfanwy Price!

    MISS PRICE

    Mr Mog Edwards!

    MR EDWARDS

    I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flannelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket, I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast.

    MISS PRICE

    I will knit you a wallet of forget-me-not blue, for the money to be comfy. I will warm your heart by the fire so that you can slip it in under your vest when the shop is closed.

    MR EDWARDS

    Myfanwy, Myfanwy, before the mice gnaw at your bottom drawer will you say

    MISS PRICE

    Yes, Mog, yes, Mog, yes, yes, yes.

    MR EDWARDS

    And all the bells of the tills of the town shall ring for our wedding.

    [ Noise of money-tills and chapel bells ]

    FIRST VOICE

    Come now, drift up the dark, come up the drifting sea-dark street now in the dark night seesawing like the sea, to the bible-black airless attic over Jack Black the cobbler's shop where alone and savagely Jack Black sleeps in a nightshirt tied to his ankles with elastic and dreams of

    SECOND VOICE

    chasing the naughty couples down the grassgreen gooseberried double bed of the wood, flogging the tosspots in the spit-and-sawdust, driving out the bare, bold girls from the sixpenny hops of his nightmares.

    JACK BLACK [ Loudly ]

    Ach y fi!
    Ach y fi!

    FIRST VOICE

    Evans the Death, the undertaker,

    SECOND VOICE

    laughs high and aloud in his sleep and curls up his toes as he sees, upon waking fifty years ago, snow lie deep on the goosefield behind the sleeping house; and he runs out into the field where his mother is making Welshcakes in the snow, and steals a fistfull of snowflakes and currants and climbs back to bed to eat them cold and sweet under the warm, white clothes while his mother dances in the snow kitchen crying out for her lost currants.

    FIRST VOICE

    And in the little pink-eyed cottage next to the undertaker's, lie, alone, the seventeen snoring gentle stone of Mister Waldo, rabbitcatcher, barber, herbalist, catdoctor, quack, his fat, pink hands, palms up, over the edge of the patchwork quilt, his black boots neat and tidy in the washing-basin, his bowler on a nail above the bed, a milk stout and a slice of cold bread pudding under the pillow; and, dripping in the dark, he dreams of

    MOTHER

    This little piggy went to market
    This little piggy stayed at home
    This little piggy had roast beef
    This little piggy had none
    And this little piggy went

    LITTLE BOY

    wee wee wee wee wee

    MOTHER

    all the way home to

    WIFE [ Screaming ]

    Waldo! Wal-do!

    MR WALDO

    Yes, Blodwen love?

    WIFE

    Oh, what'll the neighbours say, what'll the neighbours...

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Poor Mrs Waldo

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    What she puts up with

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Never should of married

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    If she didn't had to

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Same as her mother

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    There's a husband for you

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Bad as his father

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    And you know where he ended

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Up in the asylum

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    Crying for his ma

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Every Saturday

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    He hasn't got a leg

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    And carrying on

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    With that Mrs Beattie Morris

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Up in the quarry

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    And seen her baby

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    It's got his nose

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    Oh it makes my heart bleed

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    What he'll do for drink

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    He sold the pianola

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    And her sewing machine

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    Falling in the gutter

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Talking to the lamp-post

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    Using language

    FIRST NEIGHBOUR

    Singing in the w

    SECOND NEIGHBOUR

    Poor Mrs Waldo

    WIFE [ Tearfully ]

    Oh, Waldo, Waldo!

    MR WALDO

    Hush, love, hush. I'm widower Waldo now.

    MOTHER [ Screaming ]

    Waldo, Wal-do!

    LITTLE BOY

    Yes, our mum?

    MOTHER

    Oh, what'll the neighbours say, what'll the neighbours...

    THIRD NEIGHBOUR

    Black as a chimbley

    FOURTH NEIGHBOUR

    Ringing doorbells

    THIRD NEIGHBOUR

    Breaking windows

    FOURTH NEIGHBOUR

    Making mudpies

    THIRD NEIGHBOUR

    Stealing currants

    FOURTH NEIGHBOUR

    Chalking words

    THIRD NEIGHBOUR

    Saw him in the bushes

    FOURTH NEIGHBOUR

    Playing mwchins

    THIRD NEIGHBOUR

    Send him to bed without any supper

    FOURTH NEIGHBOUR

    Give him sennapods and lock him in the dark

    THIRD NEIGHBOUR

    Off to the reformatory

    FOURTH NEIGHBOUR

    Off to the reformatory

    TOGETHER

    Learn him with a slipper on his b.t.m.

    ANOTHER MOTHER [ Screaming ]

    Waldo, Wal-do! what you doing with our Matti?

    LITTLE BOY

    Give us a kiss, Matti Richards.

    LITTLE GIRL

    Give us a penny then.

    MR WALDO

    I only got a halfpenny.

    FIRST WOMAN

    Lips is a penny.

    PREACHER

    Will you take this woman Matti Richards

    SECOND WOMAN

    Dulcie Prothero

    THIRD WOMAN

    Effie Bevan

    FOURTH WOMAN

    Lil the Gluepot

    FIFTH WOMAN

    Mrs Flusher

    WIFE

    Blodwen Bowen

    PREACHER

    To be your awful wedded wife

    LITTLE BOY [ Screaming ]

    No, no, no!

    FIRST VOICE

    Now, in her iceberg-white, holily laundered crinoline nightgown, under virtuous polar sheets, in her spruced and scoured dust-defying bedroom in trig and trim Bay View, a house for paying guests, at the top of the town, Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard, widow, twice, of Mr Ogmore, linoleum, retired, and Mr Pritchard, failed bookmaker, who maddened by besoming, swabbing and scrubbing, the voice of the vacuum-cleaner and the fume of polish, ironically swallowed disinfectant, fidgets in her rinsed sleep, wakes in a dream, and nudges in the ribs dead Mr Ogmore, dead Mr Pritchard, ghostly on either side.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    Mr Ogmore!
    Mr Pritchard!
    It is time to inhale your balsam.

    MR OGMORE

    Oh, Mrs Ogmore!

    MR PRITCHARD

    Oh, Mrs Pritchard!

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    Soon it will be time to get up.
    Tell me your tasks, in order.

    MR OGMORE

    I must put my pyjamas in the drawer marked pyjamas.

    MR PRITCHARD

    I must take my cold bath which is good for me.

    MR OGMORE

    I must wear my flannel band to ward off sciatica.

    MR PRITCHARD

    I must dress behind the curtain and put on my apron.

    MR OGMORE

    I must blow my nose

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    In the garden, if you please

    MR OGMORE

    In a piece of tissue-paper which I afterwards burn.

    MR PRITCHARD

    I must take my salts which are nature's friend.

    MR OGMORE

    I must boil the drinking water because of germs.

    MR PRITCHARD

    I must make my herb tea which is free from tannin

    MR OGMORE

    And have a charcoal biscuit which is good for me.

    MR PRITCHARD

    I may smoke one pipe of asthma mixture

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    In the woodshed, if you please

    MR PRITCHARD

    and dust the parlour and spray the canary.

    MR OGMORE

    I must put on rubber gloves and search the peke for fleas.

    MR PRITCHARD

    I must dust the blinds and then I must raise them.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    And before you let the sun in, mind it wipes its shoes.

    FIRST VOICE

    In Butcher Beynon's, Gossamer Beynon, daughter, schoolteacher, dreaming deep, daintily ferrets under a fluttering hummock of chicken's feathers in a slaughterhouse that has chintz curtains and a three-pieced suite, and finds, with no surprise, a small rough ready man with a bushy tail winking in a paper carrier.

    GOSSAMER BEYNON

    At last, my love,

    FIRST VOICE

    sighs Gossamer Beynon. And the bushy tail wags rude and ginger.

    ORGAN MORGAN

    Help,

    SECOND VOICE

    cries Organ Morgan, the organist, in his dream,

    ORGAN MORGAN

    There is perturbation and music in Coronation Street! All the spouses are honking like geese and the babies singing opera. P.C. Atilla Rees has got his truncheon out and is playing cadenzas by the pump, the cows from Sunday Meadow ring like reindeer, and on the roof of Handel Villa see the Women's Welfare hoofing, bloomered, in the moon.

    FIRST VOICE

    At the sea-end of town, Mr and Mrs Floyd, the cocklers, are sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt, and brown, like two old kippers in a box.
    And high above, in Salt Lake Farm, Mr Utah Watkins counts, all night, the wife-faced sheep as they leap the fences on the hill, smiling and knitting and bleating just like Mrs Utah Watkins.

    UTAH WATKINS [ Yawning ]

    Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, forty-eight, eighty-nine...

    MRS UTAH WATKINS [ Bleating ]

    Knit one slip one
    Knit two together
    Pass the slipstich over...

    FIRST VOICE

    Ocky Milkman, drowned asleep in Cockle Street, is emptying his churns into the Dewi River,

    OCKY MILKMAN [ Whispering ]

    regardless of expense,

    FIRST VOICE

    and weeping like a funeral.

    SECOND VOICE

    Cherry Owen, next door, lifts a tankard to his lips but nothing flows out of it. He shakes the tankard. It turns into a fish. He drinks the fish.

    FIRST VOICE

    P.C. Attila Rees lumps out of bed, dead to the dark, and still foghorning, and drags out his helmet from under the bed; but deep in the backyard lock-up of his sleep a mean voice murmurs.

    A VOICE [ Murmuring ]

    You'll be sorry for this in the morning,

    FIRST VOICE

    and he heave-ho's back to bed. His helmet swashes in the dark.

    SECOND VOICE

    Willy Nilly, postman, asleep up street, walks fourteen miles to deliver the post as he does every day of the night, and rat-a-tats hard and sharp on Mrs Willy Nilly.

    MRS WILLY NILLY

    Don't spank me, please, teacher,

    SECOND VOICE

    whimpers his wife at his side, but every night of her married life she has been late for school.

    FIRST VOICE

    Sinbad Sailors, over the taproom of the Sailors Arms, hugs his damp pillow whose secret name is

    SINBAD

    Gossamer Beynon.

    FIRST VOICE

    A mogul catches Lily Smalls in the wash-house.

    LILY SMALLS

    Ooh, you old mogul!

    SECOND VOICE

    Mrs Rose-Cottage's eldest, Mae, peels off her pink-and-white skin in a furnace in a tower in a cave in a waterfall in a wood and waits there raw as an onion for Mister Right to leap up the burning tall hollow splashes of leaves like a brilliantined trout.

    MAE ROSE-COTTAGE [ Very close and softly, drawing out the words ]

    Call me Dolores
    Like they do in the stories.

    FIRST VOICE

    Alone until she dies, Bessie Bighead, hired help, born in the workhouse, smelling of the cowshed, snores bass and gruff on a couch of straw in a loft in Salt Lake Farm and picks a posy of daisies in Sunday Meadow to put on the grave of Gomer Owen who kissed her once by the pig-sty when she wasn't looking and never kissed her again although she was looking all the time.
    And the Inspectors of Cruelty fly down into Mrs Butcher Beynon's dream to persecute Mr Beynon for selling

    BUTCHER BEYNON

    owl meat, dogs' eyes, manchop.

    SECOND VOICE

    Mr Beynon, in butcher's bloodied apron, spring-heels down Coronation Street, a finger, not his own, in his mouth. Straightfaced in his cunning sleep he pulls the legs of his dreams and

    BUTCHER BEYNON

    hunting on pigback shoots down the wild giblets.

    ORGAN MORGAN [ High and softly ]

    Help!

    GOSSAMER BEYNON [ Softly ]

    My foxy darling.

    FIRST VOICE

    Now behind the eyes and secrets of the dreamers in the streets rocked to sleep by the sea, see the

    SECOND VOICE

    titbits and topsyturvies, bobs and buttontops, bags and bones, ash and rind and dandruff and nailparings, saliva and snowflakes and moulted feathers of dreams, the wrecks and sprats and shells and fishbones, whalejuice and moonshine and small salt fry dished up by the hidden sea.

    FIRST VOICE

    The owls are hunting. Look, over Bethesda gravestones one hoots and swoops and catches a mouse by Hannah Rees, Beloved Wife. And in Coronation Street, which you alone can see it is so dark under the chapel in the skies, the Reverend Eli Jenkins, poet, preacher, turns in his deep towards-dawn sleep and dreams of

    REV.ELIJENKINS

    Eisteddfodau.

    SECOND VOICE

    He intricately rhymes, to the music of crwth and pibgorn, all night long in his druid's seedy nightie in a beer-tent black with parchs.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mr Pugh, schoolmaster, fathoms asleep, pretends to be sleeping, spies foxy round the droop of his nightcap and pssst! whistles up

    MR PUGH

    Murder.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mrs Organ Morgan, groceress, coiled grey like a dormouse, her paws to her ears, conjures

    MRS ORGAN MORGAN

    Silence.

    SECOND VOICE

    She sleeps very dulcet in a cove of wool, and trumpeting Organ Morgan at her side snores no louder than a spider.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mary Ann Sailors dreams of

    MARY ANN SAILORS

    The Garden of Eden.

    FIRST VOICE

    She comes in her smock-frock and clogs

    MARY ANN SAILORS

    away from the cool scrubbed cobbled kitchen with the Sunday-school pictures on the whitewashed wall and the farmers' almanac hung above the settle and the sides of bacon on the ceiling hooks, and goes down the cockleshelled paths of that applepie kitchen garden, ducking under the gippo's clothespegs, catching her apron on the blackcurrant bushes, past beanrows and onion-bed and tomatoes ripening on the wall towards the old man playing the harmonium in the orchard, and sits down on the grass at his side and shells the green peas that grow up through the lap of her frock that brushes the dew.

    FIRST VOICE

    In Donkey Street, so furred with sleep, Dai Bread, Polly Garter, Nogood Boyo, and Lord Cut-Glass sigh before the dawn that is about to be and dream of

    DAI BREAD

    Harems.

    POLLY GARTER

    Babies.

    NOGOOD BOYO

    Nothing.

    LORD CUT-GLASS

    Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock.

    FIRST VOICE

    Time passes. Listen. Time passes. An owl flies home past Bethesda, to a chapel in an oak. And the dawn inches up.
    "there is nothing misogynistic about anything, stop trippin.
    i type this way because im black and from nyc chill son "

  4. Lounge   -   #4
    Mr JP Fugley's Avatar Frog Shoulder BT Rep: +4
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    [ One distant bell-note, faintly reverberating on ]

    FIRST VOICE

    Stand on this hill. This is Llareggub Hill, old as the hills, high, cool, and green, and from this small circle of stones, made not by druids but by Mrs Beynon's Billy, you can see all the town below you sleeping in the first of the dawn.
    You can hear the love-sick woodpigeons mooning in bed. A dog barks in his sleep, farmyards away. The town ripples like a lake in the waking haze.

    VOICE OF A GUIDE-BOOK

    Less than five hundred souls inhabit the three quaint streets and the few narrow by-lanes and scattered farmsteads that constitute this small, decaying watering-place which may, indeed, be called a 'backwater of life' without disrespect to its natives who possess, to this day, a salty individuality of their own. The main street, Coronation Street, consists, for the most part, of humble, two-storied houses many of which attempt to achieve some measure of gaiety by prinking themselves out in crude colours and by the liberal use of pinkwash, though there are remaining a few eighteenth-century houses of more pretension, if, on the whole, in a sad state of disrepair. Though there is little to attract the hillclimber, the healthseeker, the sportsman, or the weekending motorist, the contemplative may, if sufficiently attracted to spare it some leisurely hours, find, in its cobbled streets and its little fishing harbour, in its several curious customs, and in the conversation of its local 'characters,' some of that picturesque sense of the past so frequently lacking in towns and villages which have kept more abreast of the times. The one place of worship, with its neglected graveyard, is of no architectural interest. The river Dewi is said to abound in trout, but is much poached.

    [ A cock crows ]

    FIRST VOICE

    The principality of the sky lightens now, over our green hill, into spring morning larked and crowed and belling.

    [ Slow bell notes ]

    FIRST VOICE

    Who pulls the townhall bellrope but blind Captain Cat? One by one, the sleepers are rung out of sleep this one morning as every morning. And soon you shall see the chimneys' slow upflying snow as Captain Cat, in sailor's cap and seaboots, announces today with his loud get-out-of-bed bell.

    SECOND VOICE

    The Reverend Eli Jenkins, in Bethesda House, gropes out of bed into his preacher's black, combs back his bard's white hair, forgets to wash, pads barefoot downstairs, opens the front door, stands in the doorway and, looking out at the day and up at the eternal hill, and hearing the sea break and the gab of birds, remembers his own verses and tells them, softly, to empty Coronation Street that is rising and raising its blinds.

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    Dear Gwalia! I know there are
    Towns lovelier than ours,
    And fairer hills and loftier far,
    And groves more full of flowers,

    And boskier woods more blithe with spring
    And bright with birds' adorning,
    And sweeter bards than I to sing
    Their praise this beauteous morning.

    By Cader Idris, tempest-torn,
    Or Moel y Wyddfa's glory,
    Carnedd Llewelyn beauty born,
    Plinlimmon old in story,

    By mountains where King Arthur dreams,
    By Penmaen Mawr defiant,
    Llareggub Hill a molehill seems,
    A pygmy to a giant.

    By Sawdde, Senny, Dovey, Dee,
    Edw, Eden, Aled, all,
    Taff and Towy broad and free,
    Llyfnant with its waterfall,

    Claerwen, Cleddau, Dulais, Daw,
    Ely, Gwili, Ogwr, Nedd,
    Small is our River Dewi, Lord,
    A baby on a rushy bed.

    By Carreg Cennen, King of time,
    Our Heron Head is only
    A bit of stone with seaweed spread
    Where gulls come to be lonely.

    A tiny dingle is Milk Wood
    By golden Grove 'neath Grongar,
    But let me choose and oh! I should
    Love all my life and longer

    To stroll among our trees and stray
    In Goosegog Lane, on Donkey Down,
    And hear the Dewi sing all day,
    And never, never leave the town.

    [ Slow bell notes ]

    SECOND VOICE

    The Reverend Jenkins closes the front door. His morning service is over.

    FIRST VOICE

    Now, woken at last by the out-of-bed-sleepy-head-Polly-put-the-kettle-on townhall bell, Lily Smalls, Mrs Beynon's treasure, comes downstairs from a dream of royalty who all night long went larking with her full of sauce in the Milk Wood dark, and puts the kettle on the primus ring in Mrs Beynon's kitchen, and looks at herself in Mr Beynon's shaving-glass over the sink, and sees:

    LILY SMALLS

    Oh, there's a face!
    Where you get that hair from?
    Got it from old tom cat.
    Give it back then, love.
    Oh, there's a perm!

    Where you get that nose from, Lily?
    Got it from my father, silly.
    You've got it on upside down!
    Oh, there's a conk!

    Look at your complexion!
    Oh no, you look.
    Needs a bit of make-up.
    Needs a veil.
    Oh, there's glamour!

    Where you get that smile, Lil?
    Never you mind, girl.
    Nobody loves you.
    That's what you think.

    Who is it loves you?
    Shan't tell.
    Come on, Lily.
    Cross your heart then?
    Cross my heart.

    FIRST VOICE

    And very softly, her lips almost touching her reflection, she breathes the name and clouds the shaving-glass.

    MRS BEYNON [ Loudly, from above ]

    Lily!

    LILY SMALLS [ Loudly ]

    Yes, mum.

    MRS BEYNON

    Where's my tea, girl?

    LILY SMALLS

    [ Softly ] Where d'you think? In the cat-box?
    [ Loudly] Coming up, mum...

    FIRST VOICE

    Mr Pugh, in the School House opposite, takes up the morning tea to Mrs Pugh, and whispers on the stairs:

    MR PUGH

    Here's your arsenic, dear.
    And your weedkiller biscuit.
    I've throttled your parakeet.
    I've spat in the vases.
    I've put cheese in the mouseholes.
    Here's your... [ door creaks open ] ... nice tea, dear.

    MRS PUGH

    Too much sugar.

    MR PUGH

    You haven't tasted it yet, dear.

    MRS PUGH

    Too much milk, then. Has Mr Jenkins said his poetry?

    MR PUGH

    Yes, dear.

    MRS PUGH

    Then it's time to get up. Give me my glasses.
    No, not my reading glasses, I want to look out. I want to see.

    SECOND VOICE

    Lily Smalls the treasure down on her red knees washing the front step.

    MRS PUGH

    She's tucked her dress in her bloomers - oh, the baggage!

    SECOND VOICE

    P.C. Attila Rees, ox-broad, barge-booted, stamping out of Handcuff House in a heavy beef-red huff, black-browed under his damp helmet...

    MRS PUGH

    He's going to arrest Polly Garter, mark my words.

    MR PUGH

    What for, my dear?

    MRS PUGH

    For having babies.

    SECOND VOICE

    ... and lumbering down towards the strand to see that the sea is still there.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mary Ann Sailors, opening her bedroom window above the taproom and calling out to the heavens

    MARY ANN SAILORS

    I'm eighty five years three months and a day!

    MRS PUGH

    I will say this for her, she never makes a mistake.

    FIRST VOICE

    Organ Morgan at his bedroom window playing chords on the sill to the morning fishwife gulls who, heckling over Donkey Street, observe

    DAI BREAD

    Me, Dai Bread, hurrying to the bakery, pushing in my shirt-tails, buttoning my waistcoat, ping goes a button, why can't they sew them, no time for breakfast, nothing for breakfast, there's wives for you...

    MRS DAI BREAD ONE

    Me, Mrs Dai Bread One, capped and shawled and no old corset, nice to be comfy, nice to be nice, clogging on the cobbles to stir up a neighbour. Oh, Mrs Sarah, can you spare a loaf, love? Dai Bread forgot the bread. There's a lovely morning! How's your boils this morning? Isn't that good news now, it's a change to sit down. Ta, Mrs Sarah.

    MRS DAI BREAD TWO

    Me, Mrs Dai Bread Two, gypsied to kill in a silky scarlet petticoat above my knees, dirty pretty knees, see my body through my petticoat brown as a berry, high-heel shoes with one heel missing, tortoiseshell comb in my bright black slinky hair, nothing else at all but a dab of scent, lolling gaudy at the doorway, tell your fortune in the tea-leaves, scowling at the sunshine, lighting up my pipe.

    LORD CUT-GLASS

    Me, Lord Cut-Glass, in an old frock-coat belonged to Eli Jenkins and a pair of postman's trousers from Bethesda Jumble, running out of doors to empty slops - oh mind there, Rover! - and then running in again, tick tock.

    NOGOOD BOYO

    Me, Nogood Boyo, up to no good in the wash-house.

    MISS PRICE

    Me, Miss Price, in my pretty print housecoat, deft at the clothesline, natty as a jenny-wren, then pit-pat back to my egg in its cosy, my crisp toast-fingers, my homemade plum and butterpat.

    POLLY GARTER

    Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little milky creature. You're thinking, you're no better than you should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me. Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?

    FIRST VOICE

    Now frying-pans spit, kettles and cats purr in the kitchens. The town smells of seaweed and breakfast all the way down from Bay View, where Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard, in smock and turban, big-besomed to engage the dust, picks at her starchless bread and sips lemon-rind tea, to Bottom Cottage, where Mr Waldo, in bowler and bib, gobbles his bubble-and-squeak and kippers and swigs from the saucebottle. Mary Ann Sailors

    MARY ANN SAILORS

    praises the Lord who made porridge.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mr Pugh

    MR PUGH

    remembers ground glass as he juggles his omelette.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mrs Pugh

    MRS PUGH

    nags the salt-cellar.

    FIRST VOICE

    Willy Nilly postman

    WILLY NILLY

    downs his last bucket of black brackish tea and rumbles out bandy to the clucking back where the hens twitch and grieve for their tea-soaked sops.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mrs Willy Nilly

    MRS WILLY NILLY

    full of tea to her double-chinned brim broods and bubbles over her coven of kettles on the hissing hot range always ready to steam open the mail.

    FIRST VOICE

    The Reverend Eli Jenkins

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    finds a rhyme and dips his pen in his cocoa.

    FIRST VOICE

    Lord Cut-Glass in his ticking kitchen

    LORD CUT-GLASS

    scampers from clock to clock, a bunch of clock-keys in one hand, a fish-head in the other.

    FIRST VOICE

    Captain Cat in his galley

    CAPTAIN CAT

    blind and fine-fingered savours his sea-fry.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mr and Mrs Cherry Owen, in their Donkey Street room that is bedroom, parlour, kitchen, and scullery, sit down to last night's supper of onions boiled in their overcoats and broth of spuds and baconrind and leeks and bones.

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    See that smudge on the wall by the picture of Auntie Blossom? That's where you threw the sago.

    [ Cherry Owen laughs with delight ]

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    You only missed me by an inch.

    CHERRY OWEN

    I always miss Auntie Blossom too.

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    Remember last night? In you reeled, my boy, as drunk as a deacon with a big wet bucket and a fish-frail full of stout and you looked at me and you said, 'God has come home!' you said, and then over the bucket you went, sprawling and bawling, and the floor was all flagons and eels.

    CHERRY OWEN

    Was I wounded?

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    And then you took off your trousers and you said, 'Does anybody want a fight?' Oh, you old baboon.

    CHERRY OWEN

    Give me a kiss.

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    And then you sang 'Aberystwyth', tenor and bass.

    CHERRY OWEN

    I always sing 'Aberystwyth'.

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    And then you did a little dance on the table.

    CHERRY OWEN

    I did?

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    Drop dead!

    CHERRY OWEN

    And then what did I do?

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    Then you cried like a baby and said you were a poor drunk orphan with nowhere to go but the grave.

    CHERRY OWEN

    And what did I do next, my dear?

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    Then you danced on the table all over again and said you were King Solomon Owen and I was your Mrs Sheba.

    CHERRY OWEN [ Softly ]

    And then?

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    And then I got you into bed and you snored all night like a brewery.

    [ Mr and Mrs Cherry Owen laugh delightedly together ]

    FIRST VOICE

    From Beynon Butchers in Coronation Street, the smell of fried liver sidles out with onions on its breath. And listen! In the dark breakfast-room behind the shop, Mr and Mrs Beynon, waited upon by their treasure, enjoy, between bites, their everymorning hullabaloo, and Mrs Beynon slips the gristly bits under the tasselled tablecloth to her fat cat.

    [ Cat purrs ]

    MRS BEYNON

    She likes the liver, Ben.

    MR BEYNON

    She ought to do, Bess. It's her brother's.

    MRS BEYNON [ Screaming ]

    Oh, d'you hear that, Lily?

    LILY SMALLS

    Yes, mum.

    MRS BEYNON

    We're eating pusscat.

    LILY SMALLS

    Yes, mum.

    MRS BEYNON

    Oh, you cat-butcher!

    MR BEYNON

    It was doctored, mind.

    MRS BEYNON [ Hysterical ]

    What's that got to do with it?

    MR BEYNON

    Yesterday, we had mole.

    MRS BEYNON

    Oh, Lily, Lily!

    MR BEYNON

    Monday, otter. Tuesday, shrews.

    [ Mrs Beynon screams ]

    LILY SMALLS

    Go on, Mrs Beynon. He's the biggest liar in town.

    MRS BEYNON

    Don't you dare say that about Mr Beynon.

    LILY SMALLS

    Everybody knows it, mum.

    MRS BEYNON

    Mr Beynon never tells a lie. Do you, Ben?

    MR BEYNON

    No, Bess. And now I am going out after the corgies, with my little cleaver.

    MRS BEYNON

    Oh, Lily, Lily!

    FIRST VOICE

    Up the street, in the Sailors Arms, Sinbad Sailors, grandson of Mary Ann Sailors, draws a pint in the sunlit bar. The ship's clock in the bar says half past eleven. Half past eleven is opening time. The hands of the clock have stayed still at half past eleven for fifty years. It is always opening time in the Sailors Arms.

    SINBAD

    Here's to me, Sinbad.

    FIRST VOICE

    All over the town, babies and old men are cleaned and put into their broken prams and wheeled on to the sunlit cockled cobbles or out into the backyards under the dancing underclothes, and left. A baby cries.

    OLD MAN

    I want my pipe and he wants his bottle.

    [ School bell rings ]

    FIRST VOICE

    Noses are wiped, heads picked, hair combed, paws scrubbed, ears boxed, and the children shrilled off to school.

    [ Children's voices, up and out ]

    SECOND VOICE

    Fishermen grumble to their nets. Nogood Boyo goes out in the dinghy Zanzibar, ships the oars, drifts slowly in the dab-filled bay, and, lying on his back in the unbaled water, among crabs' legs and tangled lines, looks up at the spring sky.

    NOGOOD BOYO [ Softly, lazily ]

    I don't know who's up there and I don't care.

    FIRST VOICE

    He turns his head and looks up at Llareggub Hill, and sees, among green lathered trees, the white houses of the strewn away farms, where farmboys whistle, dogs shout, cows low, but all too far away for him, or you, to hear. And in the town, the shops squeak open. Mr Edwards, in butterfly-collar and straw-hat at the doorway of Manchester House, measures, with his eye, the dawdlers by for striped flannel shirts and shrouds and flowery blouses, and bellows to himself in the darkness behind his eye

    MR EDWARDS [ whispers ]

    I love Miss Price.
    "there is nothing misogynistic about anything, stop trippin.
    i type this way because im black and from nyc chill son "

  5. Lounge   -   #5
    Mr JP Fugley's Avatar Frog Shoulder BT Rep: +4
    Join Date
    Sep 2003
    Posts
    9,747
    FIRST VOICE

    Syrup is sold in the post-office. A car drives to market, full of fowls and a farmer. Milk churns stand at Coronation Corner like short, silver policemen. And, sitting at the open window of Schooner House, blind Captain Cat hears all the morning of the town.

    [ School bell in background. Children's voices. The noise of children's feet on the cobbles ]

    CAPTAIN CAT [ Softly, to himself ]

    Maggie Richards, Ricky Rhys, Tommy Powell, our Sal, little Gerwain, Billy Swansea with the dog's voice, one of Mr Waldo's, nasty Humphrey, Jackie with the sniff... Where's Dicky's Albie? and the boys from Ty-pant? Perhaps they got the rash again.

    [ A sudden cry among the children's voices ]

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Somebody's hit Maggie Richards. Two to one it's Billy Swansea. Never trust a boy who barks.

    [ A burst of yelping crying ]

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Right again! It's Billy.

    FIRST VOICE

    And the children's voices cry away.

    [ Postman's rat-a-tat on door. Distant ]

    CAPTAIN CAT [ Softly, to himself ]

    That's Willy Nilly knocking at Bay View. Rat-a-tat, very soft. The knocker's got a kid glove on. Who's sent a letter to Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard?

    [ Rat-a-tat. Distant again ]

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Careful now, she swabs the front glassy. Every step's like a bar of soap. Mind your size twelveses. That old Bessie would beeswax the lawn to make the birds slip.

    WILLY NILLY

    Morning, Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    Good morning, postman.

    WILLY NILLY

    Here's a letter for you with stamped and addressed envelope enclosed, all the way from Builth Wells. A gentleman wants to study birds and can he have accommodation for two weeks and a bath vegetarian.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    No.

    WILLY NILLY [ Persuasively ]

    You wouldn't know he was in the house, Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard. He'd be out in the mornings at the bang of dawn with his bag of breadcrumbs and his little telescope...

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    And come home at all hours covered with feathers. I don't want persons in my nice clean rooms breathing all over the chairs...

    WILLY NILLY

    Cross my heart, he won't breathe.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    ... and putting their feet on my carpets and sneezing on my china and sleeping in my sheets...

    WILLY NILLY

    He only wants a single bed, Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard.

    [ Door slams ]

    CAPTAIN CAT [ Softly ]

    And back she goes to the kitchen, to polish the potatoes.
    One, two, three, four, five ... That's Mrs Rose-Cottage. What's today? Today she gets the letter from her sister in Gorslas. How's the twins' teeth?
    He's stopping at School House.

    WILLY NILLY

    Morning, Mrs Pugh. Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard won't have a gentleman in from Builth Wells because he'll sleep in her sheets, Mrs Rose-Cottage's sister in Gorslas's twins have got to have them out...

    MRS PUGH

    Give me the parcel.

    WILLY NILLY

    It's for Mr Pugh, Mrs Pugh.

    MRS PUGH

    Never you mind. What's inside it?

    WILLY NILLY

    A book called 'Lives of the Great Poisoners'.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    That's Manchester House.

    WILLY NILLY

    Morning, Mr Edwards. Very small news. Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard won't have birds in the house, and Mr Pugh's bought a book now on how to do in Mrs Pugh.

    MR EDWARDS

    Have you got a letter from her?

    WILLY NILLY

    Miss Price loves you with all her heart. Smelling of lavender today. She's down to the last of the elderflower wine but the quince jam's bearing up and she's knitting roses on the doilies. Last week she sold three jars of boiled sweets, pound of humbugs, half a box of jellybabies and six coloured photos of Llareggub. Yours for ever. Then twenty-one X's.

    MR EDWARDS

    Oh, Willy Nilly, she's a ruby! Here's my letter. Put it into her hands now.

    [ Slow feet on cobbles, quicker feet approaching ]

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Mr Waldo hurrying to the Sailors Arms. Pint of stout with an egg in it.

    [ Footsteps stop ]

    [ Softly ] There's a letter for him.

    WILLY NILLY

    It's another paternity summons, Mr Waldo.

    FIRST VOICE

    The quick footsteps hurry on along the cobbles and up three steps to the Sailors Arms.

    MR WALDO [ Calling out ]

    Quick, Sinbad. Pint of stout. And no egg in.

    FIRST VOICE

    People are moving now, up and down the cobbled street.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    All the women are out this morning, in the sun. You can tell it's Spring. There goes Mrs Cherry, you can tell her by her trotters, off she trots new as a daisy. Who's that talking by the pump? Mrs Floyd and Boyo, talking flatfish. What can you talk about flatfish? That's Mrs Dai Bread One, waltzing up the street like a jelly, every time she shakes it's slap slap slap. Who's that? Mrs Butcher Beynon with her pet black cat, it follows her everywhere, miaow and all. There goes Mrs Twenty Three, important, the sun gets up and goes down in her dewlap, when she shuts her eyes, it's night. High heels now, in the morning too, Mrs Rose-Cottage's eldest, Mae, seventeen and never been kissed ho ho, going young and milking under my window to the field with the nannygoats, she reminds me all the way. Can't hear what the women are gabbing round the pump. Same as ever. Who's having a baby, who blacked whose eye, seen Polly Garter giving her belly an airing, there should be a law, seen Mrs Beynon's new mauve jumper, it's her old grey jumper dyed, who's dead, who's dying, there's a lovely day, oh the cost of soapflakes!

    [ Organ music distant ]

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Organ Morgan's at it early. You can tell it's Spring.

    Ocky Milkman on his round. I will say this, his milk's as fresh as the dew. Half dew it is. Snuffle on, Ocky, watering the townÉ Somebody's coming. Now the voices round the pump can see somebody coming. Hush, there's a hush! You can tell by the noise of the hush, it's Polly Garter. [ Louder ] Hullo, Polly, who's there?

    POLLY GARTER [ Off ]

    Me, love.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    That's Polly Garter. [ Softly ] Hullo, Polly, my love. Can you hear the dumb goose-hiss of the wives as they huddle and peck or flounce at a waddle away? Who cuddled you when? Which of their gandering hubbies moaned in Milk Wood for your naughty mothering arms and body like a wardrobe, love? Scrub the floors of the Welfare Hall for the Mothers' Union Social Dance, you're one mother won't wriggle her roly poly bum or pat her fat little buttery foot in that wedding-ringed holy tonight though the waltzing breadwinners snatched from the cosy smoke of the Sailors Arms will grizzle and mope.

    [ A cock crows ]

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Too late, cock, too late

    SECOND VOICE

    for the town's half over with its morning. The morning's busy as bees.

    FIRST VOICE

    There's the clip clop of horses on the sunhoneyed cobbles of the humming streets, hammering of horse-shoes, gobble quack and cackle, tomtit twitter from the bird-ounced boughs, braying on Donkey Down. Bread is baking, pigs are grunting, chop goes the butcher, milk-churns bell, tills ring, sheep cough, dogs shout, saws sing. Oh, the Spring whinny and morning moo from the clog dancing farms, the gulls' gab and rabble on the boat-bobbing river and sea and the cockles bubbling in the sand, scamper of sanderlings, curlew cry, crow caw, pigeon coo, clock strike, bull bellow, and the ragged gabble of the beargarden school as the women scratch and babble in Mrs Organ Morgan's general shop where everything is sold: custard, buckets, henna, rat-traps, shrimp nets, sugar, stamps, confetti, paraffin, hatchets, whistles.

    FIRST WOMAN

    Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard

    SECOND WOMAN

    la di da

    FIRST WOMAN

    got a man in Builth Wells

    THIRD WOMAN

    and he got a little telescope to look at birds

    SECOND WOMAN

    Willy Nilly said

    THIRD WOMAN

    Remember her first husband? He didn't need a telescope

    FIRST WOMAN

    he looked at them undressing through the keyhole

    THIRD WOMAN

    and he used to shout Tallyho

    SECOND WOMAN

    but Mr Ogmore was a proper gentleman

    FIRST WOMAN

    even though he hanged his collie

    THIRD WOMAN

    Seen Mrs Butcher Beynon?

    SECOND WOMAN

    She said Butcher Beynon put dogs in the mincer

    FIRST WOMAN

    Go on he's pulling her leg

    THIRD WOMAN

    Now don't you dare tell her that, there's a dear

    SECOND WOMAN

    or she'll think he's trying to pull it off and eat it

    FOURTH WOMAN

    There's a nasty lot live here when you come to think

    FIRST WOMAN

    Look at that Nogood Boyo now

    SECOND WOMAN

    too lazy to wipe his snout

    THIRD WOMAN

    and going out fishing every day and all he ever brought back was a Mrs Samuels

    FIRST WOMAN

    been in the water a week

    SECOND WOMAN

    And look at Ocky Milkman's wife that nobody's ever seen

    FIRST WOMAN

    he keeps her in the cupboard with the empties

    THIRD WOMAN

    and think of Dai Bread with two wives

    SECOND WOMAN

    one for the daytime and one for the night

    FOURTH WOMAN

    Men are brutes on the quiet

    THIRD WOMAN

    And how's Organ Morgan, Mrs Morgan

    FIRST WOMAN

    you look dead beat

    SECOND WOMAN

    it's organ organ all the time with him

    THIRD WOMAN

    up every night until midnight playing the organ

    MRS ORGAN MORGAN

    Oh, I'm a martyr to music.

    FIRST VOICE

    Outside, the sun springs down on the rough and tumbling town. It runs through the hedges of Goosegog Lane, cuffing the birds to sing. Spring whips green down Cockle Row, and the shells ring out. Llareggub this snip of a morning is wild fruit and warm, the streets, fields, sands and waters springing in the young sun.

    SECOND VOICE

    Evans the Death presses hard with black gloves on the coffin of his breast in case his heart jumps out.

    EVANS THE DEATH [ Harsh ]

    Where's your dignity. Lie down.

    SECOND VOICE

    Spring stirs Gossamer Beynon schoolmistress like a spoon.

    GOSSAMER BEYNON [ Tearfully ]

    Oh, what can I do? I'll never be refined if I twitch.

    SECOND VOICE

    Spring this strong morning foams in a flame in Jack Black as he cobbles a high-heeled shoe for Mrs Dai Bread Two the gypsy, but he hammers it sternly out.

    JACK BLACK [ To a hammer rhythm ]

    There is no leg belonging to the foot that belongs to this shoe.

    SECOND VOICE

    The sun and the green breeze ship Captain Cat sea-memory again.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    No, I'll take the mulatto, by God, who's captain here?
    Parlez-vous jig jig. Madam?

    SECOND VOICE

    Mary Ann Sailors says very softly to herself as she looks out at Llareggub Hill from the bedroom where she was born

    MARY ANN SAILORS [ Loudly ]

    It is Spring in Llareggub in the sun in my old age, and this is the Chosen Land.

    [ A choir of children's voices suddenly cries out on one, high, glad, long, sighing note ]

    FIRST VOICE

    And in Willy Nilly the Postman's dark and sizzling damp tea-coated misty pygmy kitchen where the spittingcat kettles throb and hop on the range, Mrs Willy Nilly steams open Mr Mog Edwards' letter to Miss Myfanwy Price and reads it aloud to Willy Nilly by the squint of the Spring sun through the one sealed window running with tears, while the drugged, bedraggled hens at the back door whimper and snivel for the lickerish bog-black tea.

    MRS WILLY NILLY

    From Manchester House, Llareggub. Sole Prop: Mr Mog Edwards (late of Twll), Linendraper, Haberdasher, Master Tailor, Costumier. For West End Negligee, Lingerie, Teagowns, Evening Dress, Trousseaux, Layettes. Also Ready to Wear for All Occasions. Economical Outfitting for Agricultural Employment Our Speciality. Wardrobes Bought. Among Our Satisfied Customers Ministers of Religion and J.P.'s. Fittings by Appointment. Advertising Weekly in the Twll Bugle. Beloved Myfanwy Price my Bride in Heaven,

    MOG EDWARDS

    I love you until Death do us part and then we shall be together for ever and ever. A new parcel of ribbons has come from Carmarthen today, all the colours in the rainbow. I wish I could tie a ribbon in your hair a white one but it cannot be. I dreamed last night you were all dripping wet and you sat on my lap as the Reverend Jenkins went down the street. I see you got a mermaid in your lap he said and he lifted his hat. He is a proper Christian. Not like Cherry Owen who said you should have thrown her back he said. Business is very poorly. Polly Garter bought two garters with roses but she never got stockings so what is the use I say. Mr Waldo tried to sell me a woman's nightie outsize he said he found it and we know where. I sold a packet of pins to Sinbad Sailors to pick his teeth. If this goes on I shall be in the poorhouse. My heart is in your bosom and yours is in mine. God be with you always Myfanwy Price and keep you lovely for me in His Heavenly Mansion. I must stop now and remain, Your Eternal, Mog Edwards.

    MRS WILLY NILLY

    And then a little message with a rubber stamp. Shop at Mog's!!!

    FIRST VOICE

    And Willy Nilly, rumbling, jockeys out again to the three-seated shack called the House of Commons in the back where the hens weep, and sees, in sudden Springshine,

    SECOND VOICE

    herring gulls heckling down to the harbour where the fishermen spit and prop the morning up and eye the fishy sea smooth to the sea's end as it lulls in blue. Green and gold money, tobacco, tinned salmon, hats with feathers, pots of fish-paste, warmth for the winter-to-be, weave and leap in it rich and slippery in the flash and shapes of fishes through the cold sea-streets. But with blue lazy eyes the fishermen gaze at that milk-mild whispering water with no ruck or ripple as though it blew great guns and serpents and typhooned the town.

    FISHERMAN

    Too rough for fishing today.

    SECOND VOICE

    And they thank God, and gob at a gull for luck, and moss-slow and silent make their way uphill, from the still still sea, towards the Sailors Arms as the children

    FIRST VOICE

    spank and scamper rough and singing out of school into the draggletail yard. And Captain Cat at his window says soft to himself the words of their song.

    CAPTAIN CAT [ Keeping to the beat of the singing ]

    Johnnie Crack and Flossie Snail
    Kept their baby in a milking pail
    Flossie Snail and Johnnie Crack
    One would pull it out and one would put it back
    O it's my turn now said Flossie Snail
    To take the baby from the milking pail
    And it's my turn now said Johnnie Crack
    To smack it on the head and put it back

    Johnnie Crack and Flossie Snail
    Kept their baby in a milking pail
    One would put it back and one would pull it out
    And all it had to drink was ale and stout
    For Johnnie Crack and Flossie Snail
    Always used to say that stout and ale
    Was good for a baby in a milking pail.

    [ Long pause ]
    "there is nothing misogynistic about anything, stop trippin.
    i type this way because im black and from nyc chill son "

  6. Lounge   -   #6
    Mr JP Fugley's Avatar Frog Shoulder BT Rep: +4
    Join Date
    Sep 2003
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    9,747
    FIRST VOICE

    The music of the spheres is heard distinctly over Milk Wood. It is 'The Rustle of Spring'.

    SECOND VOICE

    A glee-party sings in Bethesda Graveyard, gay but muffled.

    FIRST VOICE

    Vegetables make love above the tenors

    SECOND VOICE

    and dogs bark blue in the face.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard belches in a teeny hanky and chases the sunlight with a flywhisk, but even she cannot drive out the Spring: from one of her fingerbowls, a primrose grows.

    SECOND VOICE

    Mrs Dai Bread One and Mrs Dai Bread Two are sitting outside their house in Donkey Lane, one darkly one plumply blooming in the quick, dewy sun. Mrs Dai Bread Two is looking into a crystal ball which she holds in the lap of her dirty yellow petticoat, hard against her hard dark thighs.

    MRS DAI BREAD TWO

    Cross my palm with silver. Out of our housekeeping money. Aah!

    MRS DAI BREAD ONE

    What d'you see, lovie?

    MRS DAIBREAD TWO

    I see a featherbed. With three pillows on it. And a text above the bed. I can't read what it says, there's great clouds blowing. Now they have blown away. God is love, the text says.

    MRS DAI BREAD ONE [ Delighted ]

    That's our bed.

    MRS DAI BREAD TWO

    And now it's vanished. The sun's spinning like a top. Who's this coming out of the sun? It's a hairy little man with big pink lips. He got a wall eye.

    MRS DAIBREAD ONE

    It's Dai, it's Dai Bread!

    MRS DAIBREAD TWO

    Ssh! The featherbed's floating back. The little man's taking his boots off. He's pulling his shirt over his head. He's beating his chest with his fists. He's climbing into bed.

    MRS DAI BREAD ONE

    Go on, go on.

    MRS DAIBREAD TWO

    There's two women in bed. He looks at them both, with his head cocked on one side. He's whistling through his teeth. Now he grips his little arms round one of the women.

    MRS DAI BREAD ONE

    Which one, which one?

    MRS DAI BREAD TWO

    I can't see any more. There's great clouds blowing again.

    MRS DAI BREAD ONE

    Ach, the mean old clouds!

    [ Pause. The children's singing fades ]

    FIRST VOICE

    The morning is all singing. The Reverend Eli Jenkins, busy on his morning calls, stops outside the Welfare Hall to hear Polly Garter as she scrubs the floors for the Mothers' Union Dance tonight.

    POLLY GARTER [ Singing ]

    I loved a man whose name was Tom
    He was strong as a bear and two yards long
    I loved a man whose name was Dick
    He was big as a barrel and three feet thick
    And I loved a man whose name was Harry
    Six feet tall and sweet as a cherry
    But the one I loved best awake or asleep
    Was little Willy Wee and he's six feet deep.

    Oh Tom Dick and Harry were three fine men
    And I'll never have such loving again
    But little Willy Wee who took me on his knee
    Little Willy Wee was the man for me.

    Now men from every parish round
    Run after me and roll me on the ground
    But whenever I love another man back
    Johnnie from the Hill or Sailing Jack
    I always think as they do what they please
    Of Tom Dick and Harry who were tall as trees
    But most I think when I'm by their side
    Of little Willy Wee who downed and died.

    O Tom Dick and Harry were three fine men
    And I'll never have such loving again
    But little Willy Wee who took me on his knee
    Little Willy Weazel was the man for me.

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    Praise the Lord! We are a musical nation.

    SECOND VOICE

    And the Reverend Eli Jenkins hurries on through the town to visit the sick with jelly and poems.

    FIRST VOICE

    The town's as full as a lovebird's egg.

    MR WALDO

    There goes the Reverend,

    FIRST VOICE

    says Mr Waldo at the smoked herring brown window of the unwashed Sailors Arms,

    MR WALDO

    with his brolly and his odes. Fill 'em up, Sinbad, I'm on the treacle today.

    SECOND VOICE

    The silent fishermen flush down their pints.

    SINBAD

    Oh, Mr Waldo,

    FIRST VOICE

    sighs Sinbad Sailors,

    SINBAD

    I dote on that Gossamer Beynon.

    FIRST VOICE

    Love, sings the Spring. The bedspring grass bounces under birds' bums and lambs. And Gossamer Beynon, schoolteacher, spoonstirred and quivering, teaches her slubberdegullion class.

    [ Children singing ]

    GOSSAMER BEYNON

    Now, now, your accent, children!

    It was a lover and his lass
    With a hey and a hao and a hey nonino...

    SINBAD

    Oh, Mr Waldo,

    FIRST VOICE

    says Sinbad Sailors,

    SINBAD

    She's a lady all over.

    FIRST VOICE

    And Mr Waldo, who is thinking of a woman soft as Eve and sharp as sciatica to share his bread-pudding bed, answers,

    MR WALDO

    No lady that I know is.

    SINBAD

    And if only grandma'd die, cross my heart I'd go down on my knees Mr Waldo and I'd say Miss Gossamer I'd say

    CHILDREN'S VOICES

    When birds do sing a ding a ding a ding
    Sweet lovers love the Spring...

    FIRST VOICE

    Polly Garter sings, still on her knees,

    POLLY GARTER

    Tom Dick and Harry were three fine men
    And I'll never have such

    CHILDREN

    Ding a ding

    POLLY GARTER

    again.

    FIRST VOICE

    And the morning school is over, and Captain Cat at his curtained schooner's porthole open to the Spring sun tides hears the naughty forfeiting children tumble and rhyme on the cobbles...

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Gwennie call the boys
    They make such a noise.

    GIRL

    Boys boys boys
    Come along to me.

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Boys boys boys
    Kiss Gwennie where she says
    Or give her a penny.
    Go on, Gwennie.

    GIRL

    Kiss me in Goosegog Lane
    Or give me a penny.
    What's your name?

    FIRST BOY

    Billy.

    GIRL

    Kiss me in Goosegog Lane Billy
    Or give me a penny silly.

    FIRST BOY

    Gwennie Gwennie
    I kiss you in Goosegog Lane
    Now I haven't got to give you a penny.

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Boys boys boys
    Kiss Gwennie where she says
    Or give her a penny.
    Go on, Gwennie.

    GIRL

    Kiss me on Llareggub Hill
    Or give me a penny.
    What's your name?

    SECOND BOY

    Johnnie Cristo.

    GIRL

    Kiss me on Llareggub Hill Johnnie Cristo
    Or give me a penny mister.

    SECOND BOY

    Gwennie Gwennie
    I kiss you on Llareggub Hill.
    Now I haven't got to give you a penny.

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Boys boys boys
    Kiss Gwennie where she says
    Or give her a penny.
    Go on, Gwennie.

    GIRL

    Kiss me in Milk Wood
    Or give me a penny.
    What's your name?

    THIRD BOY

    Dicky.

    GIRL

    Kiss me in Milk Wood Dicky
    Or give me a penny quickly.

    THIRD BOY

    Gwennie Gwennie I
    can't kiss you in Milk Wood.

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Gwennie ask him why.

    GIRL

    Why?

    THIRD BOY

    Because my mother said I mustn't.

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Cowardy cowardy custard Give Gwennie a penny.

    GIRL

    Give me a penny.

    THIRD BOY

    I haven't got any.

    GIRLS' VOICES

    Put him in the river
    Up to his liver
    Quick quick Dirty Dick
    Beat him on the bum
    With a rhubarb stick.
    Aiee!
    Hush!

    FIRST VOICE

    And the shrill girls giggle and master around him and squeal as they clutch and thrash, and he blubbers away downhill with his patched pants falling, and his tear-splashed blush burns all the way as the triumphant bird-like sisters scream with buttons in their claws and the bully brothers hoot after him his little nickname and his mother's shame and his father's wickedness with the loose wild barefoot women of the hovels of the hills. It all means nothing at all, and, howling for his milky mum, for her cawl and buttermilk and cowbreath and Welshcakes and the fat birth-smelling bed and moonlit kitchen of her arms, he'll never forget as he paddles blind home through the weeping end of the world. Then his tormentors tussle and run to the Cockle Street sweet-shop, their pennies sticky as honey, to buy from Miss Myfanwy Price, who is cocky and neat as a puff-bosomed robin and her small round buttocks tight as ticks, gobstoppers big as wens that rainbow as you suck, brandyballs, wine-gums, hundreds and thousands, liquorice sweet as sick, nugget to tug and ribbon out like another red rubbery tongue, gum to glue in girls' curls, crimson coughdrops to spit blood, ice-cream cornets, dandelion-and-burdock, raspberry and cherryade, pop goes the weasel and the wind.

    SECOND VOICE

    Gossamer Beynon high-heels out of school. The sun hums down through the cotton flowers of her dress into the bell of her heart and buzzes in the honey there and couches and kisses, lazy-loving and boozed, in her red-berried breast. Eyes run from the trees and windows of the street steaming 'Gossamer', and strip her to the nipples and the bees. She blazes naked past the Sailors Arms, the only woman on the Dai-Adamed earth. Sinbad Sailors places on her thighs still dewdamp from the first mangrowing cock-crow garden his reverent goat-bearded hands.

    GOSSAMER BEYNON

    I don't care if he is common,

    SECOND VOICE

    she whispers to her salad-day deep self,

    GOSSAMER BEYNON

    I want to gobble him up. I don't care if he does drop his aitches,

    SECOND VOICE

    she tells the stripped and mother-of-the-world big-beamed and Eve-hipped spring of her self,

    GOSSAMER BEYNON

    so long as he's all cucumber and hooves.

    SECOND VOICE

    Sinbad Sailors watches her go by, demure and proud and schoolmarm in her crisp flower dress and sun-defying hat, with never a look or lilt or wriggle, the butcher's unmelting icemaiden daughter veiled forever from the hungry hug of his eyes.

    SINBAD SAILORS

    Oh, Gossamer Beynon, why are you so proud?

    SECOND VOICE

    He grieves to his Guinness.

    SINBAD SAILORS

    Oh, beautiful beautiful Gossamer B., I wish I wish that you were for me. I wish you were not so educated.

    SECOND VOICE

    She feels his goatbeard tickle her in the middle of the world like a tuft of wiry fire, and she turns, in a terror of delight, away from his whips and whiskery conflagration and sits down in the kitchen to a plate heaped high with chips and the kidneys of lambs. In the blind-drawn dark dining-room of School House, dusty and echoing as a dining room in a vault, Mr and Mrs Pugh are silent over cold grey cottage pie. Mr Pugh reads, as he forks the shroud meat in, from Lives of the Great Poisoners. He has bound a plain brown-paper cover round the book. Slyly, between slow mouth fuls, he sidespies up at Mrs Pugh, poisons her with his eye, then goes on reading. He underlines certain passages and smiles in secret.

    MRS PUGH

    Persons with manners do not read at table,

    FIRST VOICE

    says Mrs Pugh. She swallows a digestive tablet as big as a horse-pill, washing it down with clouded peasoup water.

    [ Pause ]

    MRS PUGH

    Some persons were brought up in pigsties.

    MR PUGH

    Pigs don't read at table, dear.

    FIRST VOICE

    Bitterly she flicks dust from the broken cruet. It settles on the pie in a thin gnat-rain.

    MR PUGH

    Pigs can't read, my dear.

    MRS PUGH

    I know one who can.

    FIRST VOICE

    Alone in the hissing laboratory of his wishes, Mr Pugh minces among bad vats and Jeroboams, tiptoes through spinneys of murdering herbs, agony dancing in his crucibles, and mixes especially for Mrs Pugh a venomous porridge unknown to toxologists which will scald and viper through her until her ears fall off like figs, her toes grow big and black as balloons, and steam comes screaming out of her navel.

    MR PUGH

    You know best, dear,

    FIRST VOICE

    says Mr Pugh, and quick as a flash he ducks her in rat soup.

    MRS PUGH

    What's that book by your trough, Mr Pugh?

    MR PUGH

    It's a theological work, my dear. Lives of the Great Saints.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mrs Pugh smiles. An icicle forms in the cold air of the dining vault.

    MRS PUGH

    I saw you talking to a saint this morning. Saint Polly Garter. She was martyred again last night. Mrs Organ Morgan saw her with Mr Waldo.

    MRS ORGAN MORGAN

    And when they saw me they pretended they were looking for nests,

    SECOND VOICE

    said Mrs Organ Morgan to her husband, with her mouth full of fish as a pelican's.

    MRS ORGAN MORGAN

    But you don't go nesting in long combinations, I said to myself, like Mr Waldo was wearing, and your dress nearly over your head like Polly Garter's. Oh, they didn't fool me.

    SECOND VOICE

    One big bird gulp, and the flounder's gone. She licks her lips and goes stabbing again.

    MRS ORGAN MORGAN

    And when you think of all those babies she's got, then all I can say is she'd better give up bird nesting that's all I can say, it isn't the right kind of hobby at all for a woman that can't say No even to midgets. Remember Bob Spit? He wasn't any bigger than a baby and he gave her two. But they're two nice boys, I will say that, Fred Spit and Arthur. Sometimes I like Fred best and sometimes I like Arthur. Who do you like best, Organ?

    ORGAN MORGAN

    Oh, Bach without any doubt. Bach every time for me.

    MRS ORGAN MORGAN

    Organ Morgan, you haven't been listening to a word I said. It's organ organ all the time with you...

    FIRST VOICE

    And she bursts into tears, and, in the middle of her salty howling, nimbly spears a small flat fish and pelicans it whole.

    ORGAN MORGAN

    And then Palestrina,

    SECOND VOICE

    says Organ Morgan.

    FIRST VOICE

    Lord Cut-Glass, in his kitchen full of time, squats down alone to a dogdish, marked Fido, of peppery fish-scraps and listens to the voices of his sixty-six clocks - one for each year of his loony age - and watches, with love, their black-and-white moony loudlipped faces tocking the earth away: slow clocks, quick clocks, pendulumed heart-knocks, china, alarm, grandfather, cuckoo; clocks shaped like Noah's whirring Ark, clocks that bicker in marble ships, clocks in the wombs of glass women, hourglass chimers, tu-wit-tu-woo clocks, clocks that pluck tunes, Vesuvius clocks all black bells and lava, Niagara clocks that cataract their ticks, old time-weeping clocks with ebony beards, clocks with no hands forever drumming out time without ever knowing what time it is. His sixty-six singers are all set at different hours. Lord Cut-Glass lives in a house and a life at siege. Any minute or dark day now, the unknown enemy will loot and savage downhill, but they will not catch him napping. Sixty-six different times in his fish-slimy kitchen ping, strike, tick, chime and tock.

    SECOND VOICE

    The lust and lilt and lather and emerald breeze and crackle of the bird-praise and body of Spring with its breasts full of rivering May-milk, means, to that lordly fish-head nibbler, nothing but another nearness to the tribes and navies of the Last Black Day who'll sear and pillage down Armageddon Hill to his double-locked rusty-shuttered tick tock dust-scrabbled shack at the bottom of the town that has fallen head over bells in love.

    POLLY GARTER

    And I'll never have such loving again,

    SECOND VOICE

    pretty Polly hums and longs.

    POLLY GARTER [ Sings ]

    Now when farmers' boys on the first fair day
    Come down from the hills to drink and be gay
    Before the sun sinks I'll lie there in their arms
    For they're good bad boys from the lonely farms,
    But I always think as we tumble into bed
    Of little Willy Wee who is dead, dead, dead...

    [ A long silence ]
    "there is nothing misogynistic about anything, stop trippin.
    i type this way because im black and from nyc chill son "

  7. Lounge   -   #7
    Mr JP Fugley's Avatar Frog Shoulder BT Rep: +4
    Join Date
    Sep 2003
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    9,747
    FIRST VOICE

    The sunny slow lulling afternoon yawns and moons through the dozy town. The sea lolls, laps and idles in, with fishes sleeping in its lap. The meadows still as Sunday, the shut-eye tasselled bulls, the goat-and-daisy dingles, nap happy and lazy. The dumb duck-ponds snooze. Clouds sag and pillow on Llareggub Hill. Pigs grunt in a wet wallow-bath, and smile as they snort and dream. They dream of the acorned swill of the world, the rooting for pig-fruit, the bagpipe dugs of the mother sow, the squeal and snuffle of yesses of the women pigs in rut. They mud-bask and snout in the pig-loving sun; their tails curl; they rollick and slobber and snore to deep, smug, after-swill sleep. Donkeys angelically drowse on Donkey Down.

    MRS PUGH

    Persons with manners,

    SECOND VOICE

    snaps Mrs cold Pugh,

    MRS PUGH

    do not nod at table.

    FIRST VOICE

    Mr Pugh cringes awake. He puts on a soft-soaping smile: it is sad and grey under his nicotine-eggyellow weeping walrus Victorian moustache worn thick and long in memory of Doctor Crippen.

    MRS PUGH

    You should wait until you retire to your sty,

    SECOND VOICE

    says Mrs Pugh, sweet as a razor. His fawning measly quarter-smile freezes. Sly and silent, he foxes into his chemist's den and there, in a hiss and prussic circle of cauldrons and phials brimful with pox and the Black Death, cooks up a fricassee of deadly nightshade, nicotine, hot frog, cyanide and bat-spit for his needling stalactite hag and bednag of a pokerbacked nutcracker wife.

    MR PUGH

    I beg your pardon, my dear,

    SECOND VOICE

    he murmurs with a wheedle.

    FIRST VOICE

    Captain Cat, at his window thrown wide to the sun and the clippered seas he sailed long ago when his eyes were blue and bright, slumbers and voyages; ear-ringed and rolling, I Love You Rosie Probert tattooed on his belly, he brawls with broken bottles in the fug and babel of the dark dock bars, roves with a herd of short and good time cows in every naughty port and twines and souses with the drowned and blowsy-breasted dead. He weeps as he sleeps and sails, and the tears run down his grog-blossomed nose.

    SECOND VOICE

    One voice of all he remembers most dearly as his dream buckets down. Lazy early Rosie with the flaxen thatch, whom he shared with Tom-Fred the donkeyman and many another seaman, clearly and near to him speaks from the bedroom of her dust. In that gulf and haven, fleets by the dozen have anchored for the little heaven of the night; but she speaks to Captain napping Cat alone. Mrs Probert...

    ROSIE PROBERT

    from Duck Lane, Jack. Quack twice and ask for Rosie

    SECOND VOICE

    ... is the one love of his sea-life that was sardined with women.

    ROSIE PROBERT [ Softly ]

    What seas did you see,
    Tom Cat, Tom Cat,
    In your sailoring days
    Long long ago?
    What sea beasts were
    In the wavery green
    When you were my master?

    CAPTAIN CAT

    I'll tell you the truth.
    Seas barking like seals,
    Blue seas and green,
    Seas covered with eels
    And mermen and whales.

    ROSIE PROBERT

    What seas did you sail
    Old whaler when
    On the blubbery waves
    Between Frisco and Wales
    You were my bosun?

    CAPTAIN CAT

    As true as I'm here
    Dear you Tom Cat's tart
    You landlubber Rosie
    You cosy love
    My easy as easy
    My true sweetheart,
    Seas green as a bean
    Seas gliding with swans
    In the seal-barking moon.

    ROSIE PROBERT

    What seas were rocking
    My little deck hand
    My favourite husband
    In your seaboots and hunger
    My duck my whaler
    My honey my daddy
    My pretty sugar sailor.
    With my name on your belly
    When you were a boy
    Long long ago?

    CAPTAIN CAT

    I'll tell you no lies.
    The only sea I saw
    Was the seesaw sea
    With you riding on it.
    Lie down, lie easy.
    Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

    ROSIE PROBERT

    Knock twice, Jack,
    At the door of my grave
    And ask for Rosie.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Rosie Probert.

    ROSIE PROBERT

    Remember her.
    She is forgetting.
    The earth which filled her mouth
    Is vanishing from her.
    Remember me.
    I have forgotten you.
    I am going into the darkness of the darkness for ever.
    I have forgotten that I was ever born.

    CHILD

    Look,

    FIRST VOICE

    says a child to her mother as they pass by the window of Schooner House,

    CHILD

    Captain Cat is crying.

    FIRST VOICE

    Captain Cat is crying

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Come back, come back,

    FIRST VOICE

    up the silences and echoes of the passages of the eternal night.

    CHILD

    He's crying all over his nose,

    FIRST VOICE

    says the child. Mother and child move on down the street.

    CHILD

    He's got a nose like strawberries,

    FIRST VOICE

    the child says; and then she forgets him too. She sees in the still middle of the bluebagged bay Nogood Boyo fishing from the Zanzibar.

    CHILD

    Nogood Boyo gave me three pennies yesterday but I wouldn't,

    FIRST VOICE

    the child tells her mother

    SECOND VOICE

    Boyo catches a whalebone corset. It is all he has caught all day.

    NOGOOD BOYO

    Bloody funny fish!

    SECOND VOICE

    Mrs Dai Bread Two gypsies up his mind's slow eye, dressed only in a bangle.

    NOGOOD BOYO

    She's wearing her nightgown.
    [ Pleadingly ] Would you like this nice wet corset, Mrs Dai Bread Two?

    MRS DAIBREAD TWO

    No, I won't!

    NOGOOD BOYO

    And a bite of my little apple?

    SECOND VOICE

    he offers with no hope.

    FIRST VOICE

    She shakes her brass nightgown, and he chases her out of his mind; and when he comes gusting back, there in the bloodshot centre of his eye a geisha girl grins and bows in a kimono of ricepaper.

    NOGOOD BOYO

    I want to be good Boyo, but nobody'll let me,

    FIRST VOICE

    he sighs as she writhes politely. The land fades, the sea flocks silently away; and through the warm white cloud where he lies silky, tingling uneasy Eastern music undoes him in a Japanese minute.

    SECOND VOICE

    The afternoon buzzes like lazy bees round the flowers round Mae Rose-Cottage. Nearly asleep in the field of nannygoats who hum and gently butt the sun, she blows love on a puffball.

    MAE ROSE-COTTAGE [ Lazily ]

    He loves me
    He loves me not
    He loves me
    He loves me not
    He loves me! - the dirty old fool.

    SECOND VOICE

    Lazy she lies alone in clover and sweet-grass, seventeen and never been sweet in the grass ho ho.

    FIRST VOICE

    The Reverend Eli Jenkins inky in his cool front parlour or poem-room tells only the truth in his Lifework - the Population, Main Industry, Shipping, History, Topography, Flora and Fauna of the town he worships in - the White Book of Llareggub. Portraits of famous bards and preachers, all fur and wool from the squint to the kneecaps, hang over him heavy as sheep, next to faint lady watercolours of pale green Milk Wood like a lettuce salad dying. His mother, propped against a palm in a pot, with her wedding-ring waist and bust like a black-cloth dining-table suffers in her stays.

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    Oh, angels be careful there with your knives and forks,

    FIRST VOICE

    he prays. There is no known likeness of his father Esau, who, undogcollared because of his little weakness, was scythed to the bone one harvest by mistake when sleeping with his weakness in the corn. He lost all ambition and died, with one leg.

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    Poor Dad,

    SECOND VOICE

    grieves the Reverend Eli,

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    to die of drink and agriculture.

    SECOND VOICE

    Farmer Watkins in Salt Lake Farm hates his cattle on the hill as he ho's them in to milking.

    UTAH WATKINS [ In a fury ]

    Damn you, you damned dairies!

    SECOND VOICE

    A cow kisses him.

    UTAH WATKINS

    Bite her to death!

    SECOND VOICE

    he shouts to his deaf dog who smiles and licks his hand.

    UTAH WATKINS

    Gore him, sit on him, Daisy!

    SECOND VOICE

    he bawls to the cow who barbed him with her tongue, and she moos gentle words as he raves and dances among his summerbreathed slaves walking delicately to the farm. The coming of the end of the Spring day is already reflected in the lakes of their great eyes. Bessie Bighead greets them by the names she gave them when they were maidens.

    BESSIE BIGHEAD

    Peg, Meg, Buttercup, Moll,
    Fan from the Castle,
    Theodosia and Daisy.

    SECOND VOICE

    They bow their heads.

    FIRST VOICE

    Look up Bessie Bighead in the White Book of Llareggub and you will find the few haggard rags and the one poor glittering thread of her history laid out in pages there with as much love and care as the lock of hair of a first lost love.

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    Conceived in Milk Wood, born in a barn, wrapped in paper, left on a doorstep, big-headed and bass-voiced she grew in the dark until long-dead Gomer Owen kissed her when she wasn't looking because he was dared. Now in the light she'll work, sing, milk, say the cows' sweet names and sleep until the night sucks out her soul and spits it into the sky.

    FIRST VOICE

    In her life-long love-light, holily Bessie milks the fond lake-eyed cows as dusk showers slowly down over byre, sea and town. Utah Watkins curses through the farmyard on a carthorse.

    UTAH WATKINS

    Gallop, you bleeding cripple!

    FIRST VOICE

    and the huge horse neighs softly as though he had given it a lump of sugar.
    Now the town is dusk. Each cobble, donkey, goose and gooseberry street is a thoroughfare of dusk; and dusk and ceremonial dust, and night's first darkening snow, and the sleep of birds, drift under and through the live dusk of this place of love. Llareggub is the capital of dusk.
    Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard, at the first drop of the dusk-shower, seals all her Sea View doors, draws the germ-free blinds, sits, erect as a dry dream on a highbacked hygienic chair and wills herself to cold, quick sleep. At once, at twice, Mr Ogmore and Mr Pritchard, who all dead day long have been gossiping like ghosts in the woodshed, planning the loveless destruction of their glass widow, reluctantly sigh and sidle into her clean house.

    MR PRITCHARD

    You first, Mr Ogmore.

    MR OGMORE

    After you, Mr Pritchard.

    MR PRITCHARD

    No, no, Mr Ogmore. You widowed her first.

    FIRST VOICE

    And in through the keyhole, with tears where their eyes once were, they ooze and grumble.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    Husbands,

    FIRST VOICE

    she says in her sleep. There is acid love in her voice for one of the two shambling phantoms. Mr Ogmore hopes that it is not for him. So does Mr Pritchard.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    I love you both.

    MR OGMORE [ With terror ]

    Oh, Mrs Ogmore.

    MR PRITCHARD [ With horror ]

    Oh, Mrs Pritchard.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

    Soon it will be time to go to bed. Tell me your tasks in order.

    MR OGMORE AND MR PRITCHARD

    We must take our pyjamas from the drawer marked pyjamas.

    MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD [ Coldly ]

    And then you must take them off.

    SECOND VOICE

    Down in the dusking town, Mae Rose-Cottage, still lying in clover, listens to the nannygoats chew, draws circles of lipstick round her nipples.

    MAE ROSE-COTTAGE

    I'm fast. I'm a bad lot. God will strike me dead. I'm seventeen. I'll go to hell,

    SECOND VOICE

    she tells the goats.

    MAE ROSE-COTTAGE

    You just wait. I'll sin till I blow up!

    SECOND VOICE

    She lies deep, waiting for the worst to happen; the goats champ and sneer.

    FIRST VOICE

    And at the doorway of Bethesda House, the Reverend Jenkins recites to Llareggub Hill his sunset poem.

    REV. ELI JENKINS

    Every morning, when I wake,
    Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
    O please to keep Thy lovely eye
    On all poor creatures born to die.

    And every evening at sun-down
    I ask a blessing on the town,
    For whether we last the night or no
    I'm sure is always touch-and-go.

    We are not wholly bad or good
    Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
    And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
    To see our best side, not our worst.

    O let us see another day!
    Bless us this holy night, I pray,
    And to the sun we all will bow
    And say, goodbye - but just for now!

    FIRST VOICE

    Jack Black prepares once more to meet his Satan in the Wood. He grinds his night-teeth, closes his eyes, climbs into his religious trousers, their flies sewn up with cobbler's thread, and pads out, torched and bibled, grimly, joyfully, into the already sinning dusk.

    JACK BLACK

    Off to Gomorrah!

    SECOND VOICE

    And Lily Smalls is up to Nogood Boyo in the wash-house.

    FIRST VOICE

    And Cherry Owen, sober as Sunday as he is every day of the week, goes off happy as Saturday to get drunk as a deacon as he does every night.

    CHERRY OWEN

    I always say she's got two husbands, one drunk and one sober.

    MRS CHERRY OWEN

    And aren't I a lucky woman? Because I love them both.

    SINBAD

    Evening, Cherry.

    CHERRY OWEN

    Evening, Sinbad.

    SINBAD

    What'll you have?

    CHERRY OWEN

    Too much.

    SINBAD

    The Sailors Arms is always open,

    FIRST VOICE

    Sinbad suffers to himself, heartbroken,

    SINBAD

    Oh, Gossamer, open yours!

    FIRST VOICE

    Dusk is drowned for ever until tomorrow. It is all at once night now. The windy town is a hill of windows, and from the larrupped waves, the lights of the lamps in the windows call back the day and the dead that have run away to sea. All over the calling dark, babies and old men are bribed and lullabied to sleep.

    FIRST WOMAN'S VOICE

    Hushabye, baby, the sandman is coming...

    SECOND WOMAN'S VOICE [ singing ]

    Rockabye, grandpa, in the treetop,
    When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
    When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
    Down will come grandpa, whiskers and all.

    FIRST VOICE

    Or their daughters cover up the old unwinking men like parrots, and in their little dark in the lit and bustling young kitchen corners, all night long they watch, beady-eyed, the long night through in case death catches them asleep.

    SECOND VOICE

    Unmarried girls, alone in their privately bridal bedrooms, powder and curl for the Dance of the World. They make, in front of their looking-glasses, haughty or come-hithering faces for the young men in the street outside, at the lamplit leaning corners, who wait in the all-at-once wind to wolve and whistle.

    FIRST VOICE

    The drinkers in the Sailors Arms drink to the failure of the dance.

    A DRINKER

    Down with the waltzing and skipping.

    CHERRY OWEN

    Dancing isn't natural,

    FIRST VOICE

    righteously says Cherry Owen who has just downed seventeen pints of flat, warm, thin, Welsh, bitter beer.

    SECOND VOICE

    Mr Waldo, in his corner of the Sailors Arms, sings

    MR WALDO

    In Pembroke City when I was young
    I lived by the Castle Keep
    Sixpence a week was my wages
    For working for the chimbley sweep.
    Six cold pennies he gave me
    Not a farthing more or less
    And all the fare I could afford
    Was parsnip gin and watercress.
    I did not need a knife and fork
    Or a bib up to my chin
    To dine on a dish of watercress
    And a jug of parsnip gin.
    Did you ever hear a growing boy
    To live so cruel cheap
    On grub that has no flesh and bones
    And liquor that makes you weep?
    Sweep sweep chimbley sweep,
    I wept through Pembroke City
    Poor and barefoot in the snow
    Till a kind young woman took pity.
    Poor little chimbley sweep she said
    Black as the ace of spades
    Oh nobody's swept my chimbley
    Since my husband went his ways.
    Come and sweep my chimbley
    Come and sweep my chimbley
    She sighed to me with a blush
    Come and sweep my chimbley
    Come and sweep my chimbley
    Bring along your chimbley brush!

    SECOND VOICE

    A farmer's lantern glimmers, a spark on Llareggub hillside.

    FIRST VOICE

    Llareggub Hill, writes the Reverend Jenkins in his poem-room,

    REV ELI JENKINS

    Llareggub Hill, that mystic tumulus, the memorial of peoples that dwelt in the region of Llareggub before the Celts left the Land of Summer and where the old wizards made themselves a wife out of flowers.

    FIRST VOICE

    Blind Captain Cat climbs into his bunk. Like a cat, he sees in the dark. Through the voyages of his tears, he sails to see the dead.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Dancing Williams!

    FIRST DROWNED

    Still dancing.

    CAPTAIN CAT

    Jonah Jarvis

    THIRD DROWNED

    Still.

    SECOND DROWNED

    Curly Bevan's skull.

    ROSIE PROBERT

    Rosie, with God. She has forgotten dying.

    FIRST VOICE

    The dead come out in their Sunday best.

    SECOND VOICE

    Listen to the night breaking.

    FIRST VOICE

    Organ Morgan goes to chapel to play the organ. He plays alone at night to anyone who will listen: lovers, revellers, the silent dead, tramps or sheep. He sees Bach lying on a tombstone.

    ORGAN MORGAN

    Johann Sebastian!

    CHERRY OWEN [ Drunkenly ]

    Who?

    ORGAN MORGAN

    Johann Sebastian mighty Bach. Oh, Bach, fach.

    CHERRY OWEN

    To hell with you,

    FIRST VOICE

    says Cherry Owen who is resting on the tombstone on his way home. Mr Mog Edwards and Miss Myfanwy Price happily apart from one another at the top and the sea-end of the town write their everynight letters of love and desire. In the warm White Book of Llareggub you will find the little maps of the islands of their contentment.

    MYFANWY PRICE

    Oh, my Mog, I am yours for ever.

    FIRST VOICE

    And she looks around with pleasure at her own neat neverdull room which Mr Mog Edwards will never enter.

    MOG EDWARDS

    Come to my arms, Myfanwy.

    FIRST VOICE

    And he hugs his lovely money to his own heart. And Mr Waldo drunk in the dusky wood hugs his lovely Polly Garter under the eyes and rattling tongues of the neighbours and the birds, and he does not care. He smacks his live red lips.
    But it is not his name that Polly Garter whispers as she lies under the oak and loves him back. Six feet deep that name sings in the cold earth.

    POLLY GARTER [ Sings ]

    But I always think as we tumble into bed
    Of little Willy Wee who is dead, dead, dead.

    FIRST VOICE

    The thin night darkens. A breeze from the creased water sighs the streets close under Milk waking Wood. The Wood, whose every tree-foot's cloven in the black glad sight of the hunters of lovers, that is a God-built garden to Mary Ann Sailors who knows there is Heaven on earth and the chosen people of His kind fire in Llareggub's land, that is the fair day farmhands' wantoning ignorant chapel of bridesbeds, and, to the Reverend Eli Jenkins, a greenleaved sermon on the innocence of men, the suddenly wind-shaken wood springs awake for the second dark time this one Spring day.
    "there is nothing misogynistic about anything, stop trippin.
    i type this way because im black and from nyc chill son "

  8. Lounge   -   #8
    Something Else's Avatar sex a wolf in a bag BT Rep: +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70BT Rep +70
    Join Date
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    lol ?


  9. Lounge   -   #9
    GepperRankins's Avatar we want your oil!
    Join Date
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    Quote Originally Posted by snowultra View Post
    say anything you want!
    i was an internets behemoth while you were still begging your mam for her credit card to get kazaa gold

  10. Lounge   -   #10
    lynx's Avatar .
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    Fuck that for an idea then.
    .
    Political correctness is based on the principle that it's possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.

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