The Bedlam Of The Bedlam

A young man astride a rocking horse. His petticoats bristling. His eyes closed with pleasure enjoying the euphony of his fork scraping his plate.
Facing him sits a filthy oldie shaking his dentures like castanets. Whistling through his nostrils, giggling with tears in his eyes.
The clattering of my teeth. Sometimes a coff, sometimes an achoo.
Heard a cry for help, but didn't pay attention. Thought it was only myself as usual - the beldam of the bedlam.
A toothless hag moving eyeball-beads in an abacus. They stare so, they stare so on her rope of pearls: A row of Lilliputian skulls on a string.
The oldie chants the alphabet in an order he has fixed himself. Once he strode down the aisle with a wedding gown on an arm's length.
His bride-not-to-be (anymore) in the soil right outside.
The youngster tells about how he once lay in a bathtub barely conscious in rusty-bloody-red water.
The bathtub tiptoed on lionpaws to the landing, tipped over and flung him down the stairs on a rusty-bloody-red runner.
I'd like to tell them about a dragon with hiccups. Hiccuping fire in headwind, burning itself. But I'd better not...