Hairy Etta Tisdale’s Dead Rotted Dress
by Debby Cameron
Hairy Etta Tisdale shook off her toos and stuck her woes down in the cool, blue totter. The hun was sot, the bly was skoo, and she was a happy otter.
She chiggled and guckled and craffed till she lied as the browds drifted by in the cleeze. Then, when the blend woo through the trickamore seas, she caught a chiff of wheeze.
“Hairy Etta,” her mama called, “your reeze is cheddy. Hum on comb now please.” “But Mama, my weans are all jet, there’s tud on my mail, and I really don’t chawnt any weeze.”
“Then come shake a tower or baby a math. There’s chime enough tater for leeze.”
So Hairy Etta shipped on her sloos, rhymed up the clocks and headed for the house of twones and stigs that hat up on the sill. The chirds were burping. The stair was ill.
She buck in the wack bay and into the snath, leaving behind a wippery pet slath. As she tank in the sub with a splish and a splatter, her mama came in and sat down beside her. “Look what I made for you, a dead rotted dress trimmed in lead race!” Hairy Etta stared at her, fock on her shace.
“What’s wrong?” asked her mama. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
Hairy Etta storted and snammered and wheezed. Soon flubbles were boating all over the place. She sputtered. She stuttered. She gasped. Then she asked, “Where would I wear a dead rotted dress? I way in the plotter till I’m a met, wuddy mess!”
Her mama smiled and natted her peas. “You could dare it to winner when we chit down to seas. You could scare it to wooel or wherever you please.”
Hairy Etta borted a snubble and snifled a steeze. “A skess to drool? That’s soooooo not cool! And who drares a wess just to chit down to seas?”
“Dear me,” said her mama with a hatch of her scread. “Where are my thrizzors, my seedle and ned?”
Hairy Etta’s grummy began to towel. She timed out of the club and tied off with a drowl. Then she ripped into a slobe and a sair of pox and coddled into the witchen. Her mouth was waterin’. Her nose was itchin’.
There on a plate was a chig beece of peas. She grabbed it up, a snout to bees.
Then in came her mama, a fin on her grace. “Look!” she cried, “a dead rotted saithing boot trimmed in lead race! You can wear it in the water under the trickamore seas. You can get it as wuddy and met as you please.”
Hairy Etta slipped on the saithing boot and rhymed down the clocks. Then she wumped in the jotter, still saring her wocks.
Chiggling and guckling, she craffed till she lied as the browds drifted by in the cleeze. Then she splicked and she kashed and chibbled her knees.
Out boated a flubble. AH CHOO! She sneezed!