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The following letter and subsequent verses were found by rail guard Lucian E. Fabble on the first day of November 2026 in a scruffy taupe envelope stuffed down the side of an ancient-looking armchair that boasted a variety of tufts and rips across its wine-stained hide: an unusually bulky item that had been shoved into the Lost Property office when the smoking room was transformed into The Tat for Tit Cyber Café in 1995. The former was penned in beautiful cursive, copperplate — a style emboldened with elegant swirls and curlicues, handwritten with a dip-pen and laid upon vellum so fine Lucian felt as though the page would simply evaporate if he fingered it for too long. The latter verses were incongruously written in orange crayon on the back of two Weetabix packets stapled together (circa 1976, Bovver Boys Edition).

The envelope was addressed to Edward Underfoot Esq, 2 Oddstone Lane, Barton in the Beans, CV13 0DF. The ‘stamp’ was a hastily sketched portrait of the Queen wearing deeley boppers and holding aloft what appeared to be a kitchen sink plunger. Lucian noted the writer had taken more than a few liberties in the nature of poetic licence, but still tucked it in his pocket when he headed home that evening, untypically transgressing Rail Board regulations.

A month after his discovery, one weekend in late summer, Lucian E. Fabble drove to the address and knocked on the door, curious to see if there was any more to this puzzling matter. The curtains were drawn and no one answered (despite the vigorous employment of an unusual door-knocker in the shape of an hourglass), yet a loud clacking could be discerned nevertheless. Peeking through the letterbox, Lucian spied a hunched figure beyond the hallway, in the gloom of a back room. He soon identified a flailing of arms, some fierce typing action and, squinting, identified further a 1940s typewriter as the victim being pounded within an inch of its life: possibly an original Remington, he thought, being knowledgeable on all manner of levered mechanics as was his bent. He — for the hunched figure surely was that — looked at least two hundred years old, was likely deaf, and seemed to be more beard than man. Erring on the side of both caution and thoughtfulness, the guarded rail guard quietly slid the missive of bygone years through the letterbox, nodding to himself as he did so, then drove away, keeping a copy of said verses memorised in some corner of his mind, feeling an odd warmth tingling within his ribs, a pleasure to have safely delivered the long-lost words home at last — regulations or no.

The one thing that troubled him about it all was the amount of references — some cultural (American hegemonic influences, etcetera) — laid down still in vivid orange and which could not possibly have been known about when the piece was penned . . . crayoned rather, half a century previously in 1976. He decided that some mysteries may never be solved, but that was no reason not to enjoy them with vim, not to ride their glorious hides and admire their shine, along the way.

Dear Eddie, 

I have some letters for you that insisted on being in the order (and disorder) of the verse below. As ever, use the map hidden within to find my latest coordinates. I’ll throw the envelope into the timeline when the Small Gods or their minions tell me to (this time by way of a house mouse or perhaps a blackbird, hopefully not a flea again — by gum that exchange took some time, and do you remember the baboon incident?! Dangerous, but funny).

Should anyone else read this whilst in transit, chances are they’ll not know what on earth it means, but that’s the way the Saussies roll with our exchanges, isn’t it? I hope they enjoy it despite the quirks, just as I hope the verses will have your smile lines a-creasing from eyes to toes long before you reach the distant end. It’s a cheeky one this time — as you know, I cannot survive without the salve of wit — but all quite true.

Time ticks on (backwards and sidewards too). Stay safe wherever and whoever you are when reading this, and regardless of anything else, write on Eddie, write on!

As ever, forever, whoever, whenever. . . the eema of your Jo. X


You are:

The ow! of my shad
Ass of my bad
Work of my fire
Tapper of my wire
Wood to my ply . . .

The scraper of my sky

The hammer to my sledge
Trimmer of my hedge
Bling of my bum
Lord of my slum
Nation of my dam . . .

The pooer of my sham

The motive for my loco
Nuts about my cocoa
Slinger of my gun
House of my fun
Oral to my corp . . .

The drive of my warp

The tiers on my bust
Ache of my must
Warmer of my heart
Work of my art
Tease to my strip. . .

The squeak of my pip

The wink in my hood
Lust for my blood
Saw to my chain
Twerker of my pain
The clogs of my clever . . .

More of my forever

But so much more Eddie, for you are also:

The sun to my liase
Paver of my craze
Muff in my ear
Sucker for my seer
Lifter of my face . . .

The walker of my space

The knot in my slip
Lashed by my whip
Embers of my rem
Fatale for my femme
Recant of my lube . . .

The Oo! at my boob

The king of my sin
Flick of my skin
Scene of my crime
Sharer of my time
Code of my Morse . . .

The sir of my sauce

The maker of my map
Doodler on my flap
Verse of my uni
Tunes of my looney
Taker of my breath . . .

Amphetamine of my meth 

The piece of my master
Cast by my plaster
Bound to my spell
Bent over my hell
The glow of my after . . .

Presenter of my B.A.F.T.A!

On the other hand, I shall always be:

The shaker of your bone
Up rising of your grown
Teed up by your goat
Ages dedicated to your float
The spinner of your plate . . .

The jacket of your straight

The writer of your ghost
Mistress of your toast
Room in your dark
Plugged into your spark
Chair of your arm . . .

The cake of your barm

The boo! to your tickety
Split by your lickety
Faction of your rare
Devilish with your dare
Roller of your steam . . .

The puff of your cream

The raider of your masque
Ale filling your cask
My dodger to your jam
Bot blitzing your spam
Tock swift to your tick . . .

The taker of your Mick!

The winner of your award
Playing with your sword
Shee wailing at your Ban
The dango in your fan
Pepper in your cayenne . . .

The tangle of your pen

The maker of your trouble
Scope of your Hubble
Box of your glove
Thang of your love
Mindy to your Mork . . .

The ward of your awks

Yet still:

The ding in your shed
Shrinker of your head
Ado whilst you’re torn
Swoggler tug at your horn
Sheet of your Excel spread . . .

The bareness of your thread

The teller of your tale
Storm inciting your hail
Arms a-flexing your fore
Ping-ponging your war
The urge of your demi . . .

The Colon: behind your semi

The howl of your wolf
Stream source of your gulf
Land of your yonder
Lust feeding your wander
Fullness of your bash . . .

The pan for your flash!

The blower of your mind
Siding idly with your blind
City sleeping ’neath your scar
Pie eyed in your Shar
The shine upon your shoes. . .

Um . . . irrevocably your muse 





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