Some were of the mind that she was the King’s poplolly and His Royal Highness would bedswerve to her cosh of a night, others thought it nothing more than the king’s bowels had become accustomed to her cooking and cooks who knew methods other than the boil, were as rare as musicians in the kingdom.
The King’s Meat

Fantastically lyrical and nightmarish, horrible and hilarious in the best of ways. Don my crook sir I portly do.

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