The Old Battle Axe and Her Hunchbacked Henchwomen

Matriarch mastermind manipulated minions rang their hells bells signifying damned to traverse highway to hell dirty deeds done dirt cheap (names changed fo' malady to remain anonymous, cuz they got thunderstruck with psychological trauma). Preface: Upon bitterly cold dawning hours of January 2000, the Harns family (not actual name of real persons constituting yours truly mine wife and at that time deux darling very young daughters) desperately sought place to live. Neon Swat Team (an independent realtor) politely informed us (meaning myself and the missus), our family lease would not be renewable. The reason without a rhyme? Ever since events initially laid forth as poem, I delightfully witnessed birth of daughter number two February 4th, 1999, (whose existence this papa helped beget approximately nine months prior), now twenty two plus years passed rendering contractual non-binding obligation null and void - whew. Even though then barely tipping scales at less than ten pounds of flesh, (this bundle of sugar, spice and everything nice, especially when adorned in pink bows inclusive), she warranted unlawful occupancy capacity subsequently exceeding one plus bedroom apartment in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania. Body quasi poetic/prosaic minimally couched, sunk, tabled... within wordy mosaic: We reckoned to live temporarily at premises vacated by mother in law from hell (since recent death of her husband, whose after life settled him in Willoughby) domicile situated at 1148 Tree Green Lane (a cozy and lazy keystone chic urban outfitted hamlet tucked into totally tubular foothills of Venn Palley, Pennsylvania), a nook of quaintness plum perfect where rivers Ratford Upon Savon converged.