The sentence-pede

    "'Twas I!" yelled the centipude, breathing sickly black venom into her own major intestinal bat, "I left it out in the raining pour!"

    "It's raining yaks and dogs," moaned Marvin rustily, "I've just put my foot in a poodle."

    "'Twas Eye!" yelled the centipodule, breathing sickly blue pustules of sick into his own minor un-armpit, "I poured warty water out of the raining pour."

    "Yes?" inquired Old Mouldy the Disgusting Warthog meaninglessly, pouring with rain himself, though never before lunch on Sundays (barmitzvahs an exception).

    "'Twas I!" yelled the sentence-pede, who was also Warden at Bretton Youth Hostel, "in t' forties and fifties we had real rainstorms — there was a Warden once, aye!"

    "Shut up you old loony," yelled the centipoff, who had had enough "had"s in one sentence; all became clear as muddy daylight, and the sentence-pede fell away into a surreal and non-existent Northern dimension of his own devises.