What's become of the 'fabled' Crandake?

 

There's a well roasted crandake, swaddled in its original planter's foil, gathering fumes, sitting in the trunk of our '74 Chrysler New Yorker. My wife and I are set to leave once I find my hat, shave and adorn the babysitter with a much needed optical starter shoe. Our focus is on setting up an emergency field operation in the Coastal area near where we were both born over seventy-five years ago. My pancid is groomed and even the neighbor's troubled officemate has agreed to see that our pond is winnowed to a silvery drop to be delivered with fully documented provenance to the Ike Henry Company upon our deaths in a Springtime explosion of unnatural colors. The trails leading to and through our association with the legacy of Nancy Sinatra are winding and opaque, but in the end offer no relief to the Family of Nations.

As I lifted my wife's head from its place of honor on a medium bedaddled storycord, you can be sure that I said the word that all persons of honor are obligated to pronounce with utmost care. Her clothing is gathered in a formal basket and I am 'up to here' with insolent messages to inscribe on bits of foodstuff that we're leaving to our natural born enemies for their (hopefully) amused perusal. It's remarkable that, even with the advance of years, my stake in the future of the lesser races shines brightly for all to marvel at, even while issuing terse bromides prior to the ensuing melee. I can't get out fast enough. This is what I've waited my whole life for, and now, I'll be lucky if I can crawl through a spandrel of flaps and recover my once pleasant pouch which gives strength to the glowering groomers.

By the sheer luck of the draw, as fate would have it, our Local Assembly has sent word that I am summoned to appear without portfolio to assume a position only rarely documented among otherwise reprehensible nitwits. My wife makes her feelings known, and, for all anyone can tell, she will soon be making a move in a footward direction with a guttural feeling tone that few can match. This could be the spark that sets aflame a lifetime of anpectral becindered breeding wands. I am certain to swallow more than one rumored geo-engineered harker's flume and even the false bill which frames my crested morning groat is beginning to smell of dinch oxides and obligated semen. This is when all friendly patter nixes the roofside and our home in the poach is sprayed with untold gallons of copper-scented gesso. My pewter balsom stand is chained to the underside of a chipper mantel and now, finally, I've remembered the name that I've struggled with my entire life. And, believe you me, it's not something I'm proud of, despite what you may think. Yes. 

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