B my Leg.

I've always been an excellent liar,
Like when I was fourteen and I lost all the blood in my left arm for weeks, and the strangest thing was that the doctors refused to amputate and for a time it just lay limp and dangling and black as a salt cod, because it was white. Nestled in the hills, water ran clear and copious and in the summer we could eat the dirt it was so fertile and ripe with goodness, but our family was forced to relocate to a town plagued by mining disaster after mining disaster and Veterans of World War I, where a boy less on arm functioning could be a relative belle of the ball compared to black lunged leather faced mine workers and octogenarian war hawks missing digits and teeth and eyeballs and hairlines which kept proportions of normalcy between amount of face and hair. Sure, there were mustaches and pinne-totte charlemoule, but nothing but a keen hat and a copious delirium would fool you into thinking these coin tossers had never bit hind paw off a living dog just to appease their older brothers in a game of "that dame won't wink, no will she."

And to top it all off, it was the year that I broke my leg.