She was terribly catty, this wench; Barnaby shot her a similarly simpering smile in hatred.
And by Jove, even her quip had the gall to rhyme perfectly with the start of his song. Insult as it had been, Barnaby only amplified his tone and kept singing (perfectly in tune, and not like a dying cat at all, thank you). “Always a cruel word from this mangy witch / whose fate is so set to die facedown in some ditch...” Ignominious ends for ignominious sorts. “What was your name?” he interjected, in the middle of dreaming up some ghastly ballad to befit her ghastly personality.
And by Jove, even her quip had the gall to rhyme perfectly with the start of his song. Insult as it had been, Barnaby only amplified his tone and kept singing (perfectly in tune, and not like a dying cat at all, thank you). “Always a cruel word from this mangy witch / whose fate is so set to die facedown in some ditch...” Ignominious ends for ignominious sorts. “What was your name?” he interjected, in the middle of dreaming up some ghastly ballad to befit her ghastly personality.
