Wobbly poem from the fall, reworked.. still wobbly

Once it was morning in 1900. Lintels boast of fireproof storage. It sounds coarse, but effing happens softly, closer to being vacated by a ghost that gives certain legs going out. It haunts the possibilities beneath certain clothes, a percentage of return on the rest of her to form a hold. To hold up the rest of her she must be in a baseball repose. But is it fireproven? Effing Sox, she yells. Calls it a cycle, but attempts fail to turn it up in any books on circulation, only hosts.