Why Yes, That's Right - Lucius Rolls His Own, Dear
THERE'S A SECLUDED SPOT near the edge of Abbey's Prava, just skirting a clump of ancient elms and oaks, where Lucius P. Apeman has his evening movements. It's an easy enough place to find, as it tends to stimulate most of man's senses; the ears distinctly discern the hungry drone of bluebottles, the nose burns with the scent of Apeman's nightly convenience, and the skin feels clammy and damp in the high humidity of the abundant brown moisture.
And too will the eyes clearly discover a most singular sight - discarded rolls of paper towelling, done-up to hold not paper towels, but toilet tissue. "Tis a man's rig, to be sure," grunts Lucius as he parades on all fours. "Perhaps those small sissy tubes will do for wenches and kiddies, but the hindquarters of a noble Apeman need something more substantial."
Lucius P. Apeman near Abbey's Prava