collage poetry by Foxmorton
Monday, December 17, 2012
Chapter II Continued (end)
"Violet Moorfields!" again my name.
"It is the intention of Her Majesty's Court to seek justice in the matter of the attempted murder of
Alderman Ian Percival Mountebanke Terwilliger. Thou stands accused of the aforementioned crime
wherin Alderman Terwilliger did suffer grievous damage to his pate and person, in addition to the damaging loss of..."
(here the judge did confer quickly and quietly with the Sheriff.)
".....indeed, aye, one pair of silk & brocade breeches listed at two pound six and eight."
A short bit of chaos burst forth once again, betwixt those who would see me triumph against the perfidious Terwilliger and those who would see me dangle for happy sport.
"Aye, what?"
I blurted out above the din, my words bringing silence upon the court once again.
I blurted out above the din, my words bringing silence upon the court once again.
"And what of 'is dignity, I ask? How much fer that?
'Tis in the air he be still wearin' them bloody breeches, is he not?"
Muffled snickers from the crowd.
"Silence, Mistress Moorfields!" spake judge and gavel.
"And what of me own property, I ask ye?
Me own chickens has been traumatized. I'll not have eggs for a fortnight!"
A cry from the viewing balcony of 'I've a chicken right wit' me ye can have, Violet!' nearly made me smile.
The mirthless gavel fell thrice.
"Methinks, Mistress Moorfields,"
spake the hearing judge in a dry tone which told the simple truth of my situation.
"Methinks ye'll naught be having eggs for a great, long while."
I locked eyes with the judge and would not give him leave to look away.
'Twas a small comfort.
Three beats and his voice boomed throughout the room.
"Violet Grace Moorfields, it is the opinion of the court that your person and your impenitent, obdurate nature, without delay will be remanded to Bethlem Hospital, in the city of London, to be detained at her Majesty's pleasure. So say the court."
The gavel fell as I swallowed a sudden mouthful of sour vomit, unwilling to evidence affright.
Though the members of the court remained stone faced, their eyes flickered, as to the delight of all but two I blew the hearing judge a resounding wet, grandly vulgar, raving tongue salute.
(end Chapter II)
A cry from the viewing balcony of 'I've a chicken right wit' me ye can have, Violet!' nearly made me smile.
The mirthless gavel fell thrice.
"Methinks, Mistress Moorfields,"
spake the hearing judge in a dry tone which told the simple truth of my situation.
"Methinks ye'll naught be having eggs for a great, long while."
I locked eyes with the judge and would not give him leave to look away.
'Twas a small comfort.
Three beats and his voice boomed throughout the room.
"Violet Grace Moorfields, it is the opinion of the court that your person and your impenitent, obdurate nature, without delay will be remanded to Bethlem Hospital, in the city of London, to be detained at her Majesty's pleasure. So say the court."
The gavel fell as I swallowed a sudden mouthful of sour vomit, unwilling to evidence affright.
Though the members of the court remained stone faced, their eyes flickered, as to the delight of all but two I blew the hearing judge a resounding wet, grandly vulgar, raving tongue salute.
(end Chapter II)
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