Tricyclist and a Turtle

Minnesota snapping turtles clutched by little cities are wet busts of moonstone wreathed in scum, the gray self sugared, half a lot of granite phlegm stopped upon a chaise longue, that incoming pod of him dunked, thorny hooves aswim. Lichen licked him, then he quivered in the stem, and didactic stoicism stitched him tight with a neat twine. Even when tapped on the back by a barefoot tricyclist with a bulging wheaten midriff, he does not respond except that a flagellant paddling worm nested in the necropolis of his nape twists in disgust under the skin, keeping all the grim social hate safe in him.