On his way to the River Idle...

he was almost certainly a man of the cloth.
grossly stained, crossly stitched, impeccably hung from the limp-and-stooped frame of a man sworn into religious serviture, cloth. In fact, it had an air about it, as if it had been rescued from a festering heap of pig-slough. Proper religious, it was.

His shoes: rough boots of worn leather and held up below the knees with short length. As to the knees, they protruded.

Where all insightful men should expect a devout follower of the Mother Mary and weighty meditations (in which lofty thought was taken captive and beaten like a breakfast egg); such men would be baffled.

Those protrudingly knobbly knees-- wibble-wobbled above the conjectured clogs. These clogs found their way into every dribbly puddle along the snow-shifted terrain.
Brown and white checkerboard with two perpendicular dashes of brown, and then white. By sheer coverage alone, brown was getting to be in the winning league.

Then a redundant rogue of some thirty-odd lost years, upon a fence post sat, and spoke- the bastard git:
"have you had your cheer today, friar? it seems you have some place to go fastily."
"I have, master tucson, thank you, and I have."
"well, what's in it for you? Is it a keg- or is it perhaps a lone squash?"
"Certainly, if I had a squash, I would throw it at you. But that would change naught."
"As long as there's a King on the Throne," the bastard puffed, "There will be no need of change, and I speak as no traitor."
"Certainly, as long as there is a King on the Squash, we are all very much safe in our beds."