The Cure of Crooning Water

Busyrot, rots the rot; rot the walls and strings. Parrot-rot, aping the rot of the rotten apple as the rolling thunder remains rotten. Roll a few more R's there, missus, instead of funnelling rotten old pills into my rotten old maw. I shan't swallow 'em. But you've thought of that. And since when do pills have legs? And how many? Marching straight down my throat like a military tattoo, disassembling superannuated artillery pieces, handing them in bits over walls and fences to their co-marchers on the other side of said jerry-rigged obstacle, and then assembling 'em again. All conducted against the clock, of course. Shades of "What the flipping use is all this?" offered as a prayer for the repose of the souls of Polish lancers flung in formation against the carterpillar onrushing Mark 2's of the thousand year...well, not as it turned out.

At least five legs on each one, he thought, as I slipped into the second person again.