No Flies On Frank

There were no flies on Frank that morning —after all why not? He was a responsable citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the barthroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn’t believe it and his blood raised to his head causing a mighty red colouring.
“I carn’t not believe this incredible fact of truth about my vеry body which has not gained fat since mother bеgat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle”.
Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. “Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whose father Alec came from Kenneth — through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April —keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?”.
He journeyed downstairs crestfalled and defective —a great wait on his boulders — not even his wife’s battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank’s head —who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look.
“What ails thee, Frank?”, she asked stretching her prune. “You look dejected if not informal”, she addled.
“Tis nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time —am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone”.
“Lo! Frank —thou hast smote me harshly with such grave talk— am I to blame for this vast burton?”.
Frank looked sadly at his wife —forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows had clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead.
“She shouldn’t see me like this”, he mubbled, “not all fat and on her thirty second birthday”.
Frank had to get his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings. Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find that there were still no flies on him.
“No flies on this Frank boy”, he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife —who was still lying about the kitchen floor.
“I carn’t not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place”, he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. “I must deliver her to her home where she will be made welcome”.
He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and headed for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife’s mothers house. She opened the door.
“I’ve brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill” (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and placed Marian on the doorstep.
“I’m not having all those flies in my home”, shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door. “She could have at least offered me a cup of tea”, thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders.