My peasant is decrepit. It’s just that your humours
are out of whack, man. The village with ugliness as

sin. Physiognomically, my peasant must be immoral.

Honestly, I am guilty. I can’t meet the p-perception
of your p-body. It’s killing me. I hadn’t given more

than an apple & a coin before I had nothing left. Me

as the decrepit medieval peasant, herped & spitting.
This hand-me-down-down-down-down robe used to

be the king’s handkerchief. The golden embroidery:

deus vult, or alhamdulilah. The truth is not quite
there yet, but it is coming. & with it a snappy &

gooey salvation. My local priest was telling me all

about it. My local priest saw my vanity through
my skull. My local priest put my skull on a leash

& walked my vanity out for days through the wheat

fields. My local priest put a crossbow through the
back of my skull in the wheat fields & exploded my

vanity in a sound like teeth against gold. The soil
hated my body. I still want to die an unusual death.