Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 3

  CHEST CEE!      (p48)

’Sdense! 

Corpo di barragio! 

you spoof of visibility in a freakfog, 

of mixed sex cases among goats hill cat and plain mousey, 

Bigamy Bob and his old Shanvocht! 

The Blackfriars treacle plaster outrage be liddled! 

There-with was released 

in that kingsrick of Humidia 

a poisoning volume of cloud barrage indeed. 

Yet all they who heard or redelivered 

are now with that family of bards 

and Vergobretas himself 

and the crowd of Cara-culac-ticors 

as much no more as be they not yet now 

or had they then notever been. 

Canbe in some future we shall presently here 

amid those zouave players of Inkermann 

the mime mumming the mick and his nick miming their maggies, 

Hilton St Just (Mr Frank Smith), 

Ivanne Ste Austelle (Mr J. F. Jones), 

Coleman of Lucan taking four parts, 

a choir of the O’Daley O’Doyles double-sixing the chorus 

in Fenn Mac Call and the Serven Feeries of Loch Neach, 

Galloper Troppler and Hurleyquinn 

the zitherer of the past 

with his merrymen all, 

zimzim, zimzim. 

Of the persins sin this Eyrawyggla saga 

(which, thorough readable to int from and, 

is from tubb to buttom all false-tissues, 

anti-libellous and non-actionable 

and this applies to its whole wholume) 

of poor Osti-Fosti, 

described as quite a musical genius in a small way 

and the owner of an exceedingly niced ear, 

with tenorist voice to match, 

not alone, 

but a very major poet of the poorly meritary order 

(he began Tuonisonian 

but worked his passage up 

as far as the we-all-hang-together Animandovites) 

no one end is known. 

If they (p49) whistled him before he had curtains up 

they are whistling him still 

after his curtain’s doom’s doom. 

Ei fù. 

His husband, 

poor old A’Hara (Okaroff?) 

crestfallen by things 

and down at heels at the time, 

they squeak, 

accepted the (Zassnoch!) ardree’s shilling 

at the conclusion of the Crimean war 

and, having flown his wild geese, 

alohned in crowds to warnder on like Shuley Luney, 

enlisted in Tyrone’s horse, 

the Irish whites, 

and soldiered a bit with Wolsey 

under the assumed name of Blanco Fusilovna Bucklovitch 

(spurious) 

after which the cawer 

and the marble halls of Pump Court Columbarium, 

the home of the old seakings, 

looked upon each other 

and queth their haven evermore 

for it transpires 

that on the other side of the water 

it came about that on the field of Vasileff’s Cornix 

inauspiciously with his unit he perished, 

saying, 

this papal leafless to old chap give, 

rawl chawclates for mouther-in-louth. 

Booil. 

Poor old dear Paul Horan, 

to satisfy his literary as well as his criminal aspirations, 

at the suggestion thrown out by the doomster in loquacity lunacy, 

so says the Dublin Intelligence, 

was thrown into a Ridley’s for inmates in the northern counties. 

Under the name of Orani 

he may have been the utility man of the troupe 

capable of sustaining long parts at short notice. 

He was. 

Sordid Sam, a dour decent deblancer, 

the unwashed, 

haunted always by his ham, 

the unwished, 

at a word from Israfel the Summoner, 

passed away painlessly 

after life’s upsom-downs one hallowe’en night, 

ebbrous and in the state of nature, 

propelled from Behind into the great Beyond 

by footblows coulin-clouted upon his oyster and atlas 

on behanged and behooved and behicked and behulked 

of his last fish-and-blood bed-scrappers, 

a Northwegian and his mate of the Sheawolving class. 

Though the last straw glimt his baring 

this stage thunkhard is said 

(the pitfallen gagged him as ‘Prompt-boxer’) 

to have solemnly said

—as had the brief thot but fell in till his head 

like a bass dropt neck fust in till a bung crate (cogged!): 

Me drames, O’Loughlins, has come through! 

Now let the centuple celves of my egourge 

as Micholas de Cusack calls them,

—of all of whose I in my hereinafter of course by recourse demission me—

by the coincidance of their contraries re-amalga-merge 

in that indentity (p50) of undiscernibles 

where the Baxters and the Fleshmans 

may they cease to bidivil uns 

and (but at this poingt 

though the iron thrust of his cockspurt start 

might have prepared us 

we are wellnigh stink-potthered 

by the mustard-punge in the tailend) 

this outandin brown candle-stock melt Nolan’s into peese! 

Han var. 

Disliken as he was to drurio-drama, 

her wife Langley, 

the prophet, 

and the decentest dozendest short of a frusker 

whoever stuck his spickle through his spoke, 

disappeared, 

(in which toodooing he has taken all the French leaves unveilable 

out of Calomne-quiller’s Pravities) 

from the sourface of this earth, 

that austral plain he had transmaried himself to, 

so entirely spoorlessly 

(the mother of the book 

with a dustwhisk tabularasing his obliteration done upon her involucrum) 

as to tickle the speculative to all but opine 

(since the Levey 

who might have been Langley 

may have really been a redivivus of paganinism 

or a volunteer Vousden) 

that the hobo 

(who possessed a large amount of the humoresque) 

had transtuled his funster’s latitat to its finsterest interrimost. 

Bhi she. 

Again, if Father San Browne, 

tea and toaster to that quaintesttest of yarn-spinners 

is Padre Don Bruno, 

treu and troster to the queen of Iar-Spain, 

was the reverend, 

the sodality director, 

that eupeptic viceflayer, 

a barefaced carmelite, 

to whose palpitating pulpit 

(which of us but remembers the rarevalent and hornerable 

Frato-mistor Nawlanmore and Brawne.) 

sinning society sirens 

(see the [Roman Catholic] presspassim) 

fortunately became so enthusiastically attached 

and was an objectionable ass 

who very occasionally cockaded a raffles ticket on his hat 

which he wore all to one side 

like the hangle of his pan 

(if Her Elegance saw him she’d have the canary!) 

and was semi-privately convicted of malpractices 

with his hot-washed table-knife 

(glossing over the cark in his pocket) 

that same snob of the dunhill, 

fully several yearschaums riper, 

encountered by the General 

on that red-letter morning or maynoon jovesday 

and were they? 

Fuitfuit.

———————————————————-

When Phishlin Phil wants throws his lip 

’tis pholly to be fortune flonting 

and whoever’s gone to mix Hotel by the salt say water 

there’s nix to nothing we can do 

for he’s never again to sea. 

It is nebuless an autodidact fact of the commonest 

that the shape of (p51) the average human cloudy-phiz, 

whereas sallow 

has long daze faded, 

frequently altered its ego with the possing of the showers 

(Not original!). 

Whence it is a slopperish matter, 

given the wet and low visibility 

(since in this scherzarade of one’s thousand one nightinesses 

that sword of certainty which would indentifide the body never falls) 

to idendifine the individuone 

in scratch wig, squarecuts, stock lavaleer, 

regattable oxeter, baggy pants and shufflers 

(he is often alluded to as Sly-patrick, the llad in the llane) 

with already an incipience (lust!) 

in the direction of area baldness 

(one is continually first-meeting with odd sorts of others 

at all sorts of ages!) 

who was asked by free board-school shirkers 

in drenched coats overawall, 

Will, Conn and Otto, 

to tell them overagait, 

Vol, Pov and Dev, 

that fishabed ghoat-story of the haardly creditable edventyres 

of the Haberdasher, 

the two Curchies and the three Enkelchums 

in their Bearskin ghoats! 

Girles and jongers, 

but he has changed alok syne Thorkill’s time! 

Ya, da, tra, gathery, pimp, shesses, shossafat, okodeboko, nine! 

Those many warts, 

those slummy patches, 

halfsinster wrinkles, 

(what has come over the face on wholebroader E?), 

and (shrine of Mount Mu save us!) 

the large fungo-park he has grown! 

Drink!

—————————————————-

Sport’s a common thing. 

It was the Lord’s own day for damp 

(to wait for a postponed regatta’s eventualising 

is not of Battle-cock Shettle-dore-Juxta-Mare only) 

and the request for a fully armed explanation was put 

(in Loo of Pat) 

to the porty 

(a native of the sister-isle

— Meathman or Meccan?

— by his brogue, exrace eyes, lokil calour and lucal odour 

which are said to have been average clown-turkish 

(though the capelist’s voiced nasal liquids 

and the way he sneezed at zees 

haul us back to the craogs and bryns of the Silurian Ordovices) 

who, the lesser pilgrimage accomplished, 

had made, 

pats’ and pigs’ older inselt, 

the south-east bluffs of the stranger stepshore, 

a regifugium persecutorum, 

hence hindquarters) 

as he paused at even-chime for some or so minutes 

(hit the pipe dannyboy! Time to won, barmon. I’ll take ten to win.) 

amid the devil’s one duldrum 

(Apple by her blossom window 

and Charlotte at her toss panomancy his sole admirers, 

his only tearts in store) 

for a fragrend culubosh 

during his weekend (p52) pastime of executing 

with Anny Oakley deadliness 

(the consummatory pairs of provocatives, 

of which remained provokingly but two, 

the ones he fell for, Lili and Tutu, cork em!) 

empties which had not very long before contained Reid’s family 

(you ruad that before, soaky, 

but all the bottles in sodemd histry will not soften your blood-a-thirst!) 

stout. 

Having reprimed his repeater 

and resite-roomed his times-piece His Revenances, 

with still a life or two to spare 

for the space of his occupancy of a world at a time, 

rose to his feet and there, 

far from Tolkaheim, 

in a quiet English garden 

(commonplace!), 

since known as Whiddington Wild, 

his simple intensive curolent vocality, 

my dear-braithers, 

my most dear-brathairs, 

as he, so is a supper as is a sipper, 

spake of the One and told of the Compassionate, 

called up before the triad of precoxious scare-makers 

(scoretaking: 

Spegulo ne helpas al malbellulo, 

Mi Kredas ke vi estas prava, 

Via dote la vizago rispondas fraulino) 

the now to ushere mythical habiliments of Our Farfar 

and Arthor of our doyne.

———————————————————

Television kills telephony in brothers’ broil. 

Our eyes demand their turn. 

Let them be seen! 

And wolfbone bale-fires blaze the trail-most 

if only that Mary Nothing may burst her bibby buckshee. 

When they set fire then she’s got to glow 

so we may stand some chances of warming 

to what every soorka-batcha, tum or hum, 

would like to know. 

The first Humphrey’s latitudinous baver with puggaree behind, (calaboose belong bigboss belong Kang the Toll) 

his four-in-hand bow, 

his elbaroom surtout, 

the refaced unmansionables of gingerine hue, 

the state slate umbrella, 

his gruff woolsely-wellesly with the finn-drinn knopfs 

and the gauntlet upon the hand 

which in an hour not for him solely evil 

had struck down the might he might-have-been d’Esterre 

of whom his nation seemed almost already to be about to have need. 

Then, stealing his thunder, 

but in the befitting legomena of the smaller country, 

(probable words, possibly said, of field family gleaming) 

a bit duskish and flavoured with a smile, 

seein as ow his thoughts consisted chiefly of the cheerio, 

he aptly sketched for our soontobe second parents 

(sukand see whybe!) 

the touching seene. 

The solence of that stilling! 

Here one might a (p53) fin fell. 

Boomster rom-bom-bonant! 

It scenes like a landescape from Wildu Picturescu 

or some seem on some dimb Arras, 

dumb as Mum’s mutyness, 

this mimage of the seventy-seventh kusin of kristansen 

is odable to os across the wineless Ere 

no œdor nor mere eerie 

nor liss potent of suggestion 

than in the tales of the ting-mount. 

(Prigged!)

—————————————————————————

And there oftafter, 

jaunty-jogging, 

on an Irish visavis, 

insteadily with shoulder to shoulder 

Jehu will tell to Christianier, 

saint to sage, 

the humphriad of that fall and rise 

while daisy winks at her pinker sister among the tussocks 

and the copoll between the shafts mocks the couple on the car. 

And as your who may look like how 

on the owther side of his big belttry your tyrs and cloes your noes 

and paradigm maymay rererise in eren. 

Follow we up his whip vindicative. 

Thurston’s! Lo bebold! La arboro, lo petrusu. 

The augustan peace-be-to-them oaks, 

the monolith rising stark from the moonlit pine-barren. 

In all fortitudinous ajaxious rowdi-noisy tenuacity. 

The angelus hour 

with ditchers bent upon their farm use-tensiles, 

the soft belling of the fallow deers 

(doereh-moose genuane!) 

advertising their milky approach 

as midnight was striking the hours 

(letate!),

and how brightly the great tri-bune 

outed the shark-skin smoke-wallet 

(imitation!) 

from his frock, 

kippers, 

and by Joshua, 

he tips un a topping swank cheroot, 

none of your swellish soide, 

quoit the reverse, 

and how manfally he says, 

pluk to pluk and lekan for lukan, 

he was to just pluggy well suck that brown boyo, my son, 

and spend a whole half hour in Havana. 

Sorer of the kreeks-men, 

would not thore be old high goth-sprogue! 

Wherefore he met Master, 

he mean to say, 

he do, sire, 

bester of redpublicans, 

at Eagle Cock Hostel on Lorenzo Tooley street 

and how he wished his Honour the bannocks of Gort 

and Morya and Bri Head and Puddyrick, 

yore Loudship, 

and a starch-box-sitting in the pit of his St Tomach’s,

——a strange wish for you, my friend, 

and it would poleaxe your sonson’s grandson utterly 

though your own old sweat-and-swear flo-rue-runts heaved it hoch 

many as the times, 

when they were turrified by the hitz.

—————————————————-

Chee chee cheers for Up-king-billy 

and crow cru cramwells (p54) Downa-boo! 

Hup, boys, and hat him! 

See! 

Oilbeam they’re lost we’ve fount re-rembrandtsers, 

their hours to date link these heirs to here 

but wowhere are those yours of Yesters-days? 

Far-seeing-etherich and Pool-aul-woman Charachthercuss 

and his Ann van Vogt. 

D.e.e.d! 

Edned, ended or sleeping soundlessly? 

Favour with your tongues! 

Intendite!

——————————————————-

Any dog’s life you list you may still hear them at it, 

like sixes and seventies 

as eversure as Halley’s comet, 

ule-mamen, sobranje-women, storthing-boys and duma-girls, 

as they pass its bleak and bronze portal of your Casa-concordia: 

Huru more Nee, minny frickans? 

Hwoorledes har Dee det? 

Losdoor onleft mladies, cue. 

Mille-ciento-tri-ginta-due scudi. 

Tippoty, kyrie, tippoty. 

Cha kai rotty kai makkar, sahib? 

Despenseme Usted, senhor, en son succo, sabez. 

O thaw bron orm, A’Cothraige, think-in-thou gaily? 

Lick-Pa-flai-hai-pa-Pa-li-si-lang-lang. 

Epi alo, ecou, Batiste, tu-vavnr dans Lptit boing going. 

Ismeme de bumbac e meias de portocallie. 

O.O. Os pipos mios es demasiada gruarso por O piccolo pocchino. 

Wee fee? 

Ung duro. 

Kocshis, szabad? 

Mercy, and you? 

Gomagh, thak.

————————————————

And, Cod, says he with mugger’s tears: 

Would you care to know the prise of a liard? 

Maggis, nick your nighty-novel! 

Mass Travener’s at the mike again! 

And that bag belly is the buck to goat it! 

Meggeg, m’gay chap-jappy fellow, 

I call our univalse to witness, 

as sicker as moy-liffey eggs is known 

by our good house-halters 

from yore-hunderts of mamooth 

to be which they commercially are 

in ahoy high British quarters (conventional!) 

my guesthouse 

and cowhaendel credits will immediately stand ohoh open 

as straight as that neighbouring monument’s fabrication 

before the hygienic gllll… (globe)

(this was where the reverent sabboth and bottle-breaker 

with firbalk forth-stretched 

touched upon his tri-coloured boater, 

which he uplifted by its pickled-hoopy

(he gave Stetson one and a penny for it) 

whileas oleaginosity of ancestra-lolo-sis sgocciolated 

down the both pendencies of his mut-sohito liptails 

(Sencapetulo, 

a more modestuous con-ciliabulite never curled a tom pocket-mouth), cordially inwiting the adullescence 

who he was wising up to do in like manner 

what all did (p55) so as he was able to add) 

…(g)lobe before the Great Schoolmaster’s. 

(I tell you no story.) 

Smile!

————————————————-

The house of Atreox is fallen indeedust 

(Ilyam, Ilyum! Maeromor Mournomates!) 

averging on blight like the mundi-banks of Fennyana, 

but deeds bounds going arise again. 

Life, he himself said once, 

(his biografiend, in fact, kills him verysoon, if yet not, after) 

is a wake, 

livit or krikit, 

and on the bunk of our bread-winning lies the cropse of our seed-father, 

a phrase which the establisher of the world by law 

might pretinately write across the chest-front of all man-or-womban-born. 

The scene, refreshed, reroused, 

was never to be forgotten, 

the hen and crusader ever-inter-mutuo-mergent, 

for later in the century 

one of that puisne band of fact-ferreters, 

(then an excivily 

(out of the custom huts) 

(retired), 

(hurt), 

under the sixty-fives act) 

in a dressy black modern style 

and wewere shiny tan burlingtons, 

(tam, homd and dicky, quo-priquos and pea-jagd) 

rehearsed it, 

pippa pointing, 

with a dignified (copied) bow 

to a name-cousin of the late arch-deacon F. X. Preserved Coppinger 

(a hot fellow in his night, 

may the mouther of guard have mastic on him!) 

in a pull-woman of our first trans-hibernian 

with one still sadder circumstance 

which is a dirk-an-durk heart-skewerer 

if ever to bring bouncing brimmers from marbled eyes. 

Cycloptically through the window-disks 

and with eddying awes 

the round eyes of the rund-reisers, 

back to back, 

buck to bucker, 

on their airish chaunting car, 

beheld with intouristing ante-restedness 

the clad pursue the bare, 

the bare the green, 

the green the frore, 

the frore the clad-again, 

as their convoy wheeled encirculingly abound the gigantig’s life-tree, 

our fire-leaved lover-lucky blomster-bohm, 

phoenix in our woodlessness, 

haughty, cacuminal, erubescent (repetition!) 

whose roots they be asches with lustres of peins. 

For as often as the Archi-cadenus, 

pleacing aside his Irish Field 

and craving their auriculars 

to recepticle particulars 

before they got the bump at Castlebar 

(mat and far!) 

spoke of it by request all, 

hearing in this new reading of the part 

whereby, because of Dyas in his machina, 

the new garrickson’s grimacing grimaldism 

hypostasised by substintuation the axiomatic ore-rotundity 

of that once grand old elrington bawl, (p56) 

the copycus’s description 

of that fellow-commuter’s play upon countenants, 

could simply imagine themselves in their bosom’s inmost core, 

as pro tem locums, 

time-sported acorss the yawning (abyss), 

as once they were seasiders, 

listening to the cock-shy-shooter’s evensong evocation 

of the doomed but always ventriloquent Agitator, 

(no-not more plang-or-pound 

the billows o’er Thou-na-wa-hall-ya Reef!) silk-houatted, 

a whallrhos-might-i-add, 

aginsst the dusk of skum-ring, 

(would that fane be Saint Muezzin’s calling

—holy places!

—and this fez brimless as brow of faithful toucher of the ground, 

did wish it were

—blessed be the bones!

—the ghazi, power of his sword.) 

his man-slayer’s gun-wielder protended 

towards that overgrown lead-pencil 

which was soon, 

monumentally at least, 

to rise as Molyv-do-kon-dylon 

to, 

to be, 

to be his mausoleum 

(O’dan stod till-steyne at meisies aye skould show pon) 

while olover his exculpatory features, 

as Roland rung, 

a wee dropeen of grief about to sillonise his joue-jous, 

the ghost of resignation diffused a spectral appealingness, 

as a young man’s drown o’er the fate of his waters may gloat, 

similar in origin 

and akkurat in effective 

to a beam of sunshine upon a coffin plate.

—————————————

Not olderwise Inn the days of the Bygning 

would our Traveller remote, 

unfriended, 

from van Demon’s Land, 

some lazy skald or maundering pote, 

lift weary-willy his slowcut snobsic eyes 

to the semi-signs of his zooteac 

and lengthily lingering along flask-neck, 

cracket cup, 

down -trodden brogue, 

turfsod, 

wild-broom, 

cabbage-blad, 

stock-fisch, 

longingly learn that there at the Angel were herberged for him 

poteen and tea and praties 

and baccy and wine width woman wordth warbling: 

and informally quasi-begin to presquesm’ile to queasi-thin’ 

(Nonsense! 

There was not very much windy Nous blowing 

at the given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow!)

———————————————

But in the pragma 

what formal cause made a smile of that to-think? 

Who was he to whom? 

(O’Breen’s not his name nor the brown one his maid.) 

Whose are the place-wheres? 

Kiwasti, kisker, kither, kitna-budja? 

Tal the tem of the tumulum. 

Giv the gav of the grube. 

Be it cudgel-players’ country, 

orfish-fellows’ town 

or leek-lickers’ land 

or panb-panung-o-poven-greskey. 

What regnans (p57) raised the rains have levelled 

but we hear the pointers 

and can gauge their compass 

for the melos yields the mode 

and the mode the manners plicyman, 

plansiman, 

plousiman, 

plab. 

Tsin tsin tsin tsin! 

The fore-farther folkers for a prize of two peaches 

with Ming, Ching and Shunny on the lie low lea. 

We’ll sit down on the hope of the ghouly ghost 

for the tithe-man troubleth 

but his hantitat hies not here. 

They answer from their Zoans; 

Hear the four of them! 

Hark torroar of them! 

I, says Armagh, 

and a’m proud o’it. 

I, says Clonakilty, 

God help us! 

I, says Deansgrange, 

and say nothing. 

I, says Barna, 

and whatabout it? 

Hee haw! 

Before he fell hill he filled heaven: 

a stream, alp-lapping streamlet, 

coyly coiled um, 

cool of her curls: 

We were but thermites then, wee, wee. 

Our antheap we sensed as a Hill of Allen, 

the Barrow for an People, 

one Jot-nurs-fjaell: 

and it was a grummelung amung the pork-troop 

that wonder-struck us as a thunder, yunder.

——————————————————-

Thus the unfacts, 

did we possess them, 

are too imprecisely few to warrant our certitude, 

the evidence-givers by legpoll 

too untrust-worthily irreperible 

where his adjugers are semmingly freak threes 

but his judicandees plainly minus twos. 

Nevertheless 

Madam’s Toshowus waxes largely more lifeliked 

(entrance, one kudos; exits, free) 

and our notional gullery is now completely complacent, 

an exegious monument, 

aerily perennious. 

Oblige with your black-thorns; gamps, degrace! 

And there many have paused before that exposure of him 

by old Tom Quad, 

a flashback in which he sits 

sated, gowndabout, 

in clerical-ease habit, 

watching bland sol slithe dodgsomely into the nether-more, 

a globule of maugdleness about to corrugitate his mild dewed cheek 

and the tata of a tiny victorienne, 

Alys, 

pressed by his limper looser.

—————————————————————-

Yet certes one is. 

Eher the following winter had overed the pages of nature’s book 

and till Ceadurbar-atta-Cleath became Dablena Tertia, 

the shadow of the huge outlander, 

mala-dik, mult-vult, magn-operous, 

had bulked at the bar of a rota of tribunals 

in manor hall as in thieves’ kitchen, 

mid pillow talk and chithouse chat, 

on Marlborough Green as through Molesworth Fields, 

here sentenced pro tried with Jedburgh justice, 

there acquitted (p58) con testimony with benefit of clergy. 

His Thing Mod have undone him: 

and his madthing has done him man. 

His beneficiaries are legion in the part he created: 

they number up his years. 

Great-wheel Dunlop was the name was on him: 

behung, all we are his bisaacles. 

As hollyday in his house so was he priest and king to that: 

ulvy came, envy saw, ivy conquered. 

Lou! Lou! 

They have waved his green boughs o’er him 

as they have torn him limb from lamb. 

For his muerti-fication and uxpi-ration and dum-nation and annu-hulation. 

With schreis and grida, deprofound souspirs. 

Steady, sullivans! 

Mannequins pause! 

Longtong’s breach is fallen down but Graunya’s spreed’s abroad. 

Ahdostay, fee-daily-ones, 

and feel the Flucher’s bawls 

for the total of your flouts is not fit to fan his fettle, O! 

Have a ring and sing wohl! 

Chin, chin! Chin, chin! 

And of course all chimed din width the eatmost boviality. 

Swiping rums and beaunes and sherries 

and ciders and negus and citronnades too. 

The strongers. 

Oho, oho, Mester Begge, 

you’re about to be bagged in the bog again. 

Bugge. 

But softsies seuf-sighed: 

Eheu, for gassies! 

But, lo! lo! 

by the threnning gods, 

human, erring and condonable, 

what the statues of our kuo, 

who is the mess-chef be our kuang, 

ashu ashure there, 

the unforgettable tree-shade looms up 

behind the jostling judgements of those, 

as all should owe, 

mal-recapturable days.

——————————————————

Tap and pat and tapat-again, 

(fire first-shot, Missiers the Refuseleers! 

Peingpeong! 

For saxonlootie!) 

three tommix, soldiers free, cocka-leak and cappa-pee, 

of the Coldstream Guards were walking, 

in (pardonnez-leur, je vous en prie, eh?) 

Montgomery Street. 

One voiced an opinion in which on either wide 

(pardonnez!), 

nod-ding, all the Finner Camps concurred 

(je vous en prie, eh?). 

It was the first woman, they said, 

souped him, that fatal wellesday, 

Lili Coninghams, 

by suggesting him they go in a field. 

Wroth mod eldfar, 

ruth redd stilstand, 

wrath wrackt wroth, 

confessed private Pat Marchison retro. 

(Terse!) 

Thus contenters with santoys play. 

One of our coming Vauxhall on-the-boards 

who is resting for the moment 

(she has been callit by a noted stagey elecutioner 

a waste-packet Sittons) 

was interfeud in a waistend pewty parlour. 

Looking perhaps even more pewtyflushed 

in her cherry-derry (p59) padoua-soys, girdle and braces 

by the halfmoon and Seven Stars, 

russets from the Blackamoor’s Head, 

amongst the climbing boys 

at his Eagle and Child 

and over the corn and hay emptors 

at their Black and All Black, 

Mrs F . . . A . . . said-aside, 

half in stage of whisper to her confidante glass, 

while recoopering her cartwheel chapot 

(ahat!—and we now know what thimbles a baquets 

on lallance a talls mean), 

she hoped Sid Arthar would git a Chrissman’s portrout 

of orange and lemon-sized orchids with hollegs and ether, 

from the feeatre of the Innocident, 

as the worryld had been uncained. 

Then, 

while it is odrous comparisoning to the sprang-flowers 

of his burstday 

which was a viridable god-din-potty 

for the rein-worms and the char-lattinas 

and all branches of clima-titis, 

it has been such a wanderful noyth untirely, 

added she, 

with many regards to Maha’s pranja-pansies. 

(Tart!) 

Prehistoric, 

obitered to his dictaphone an entychologist: 

his pro-penomen is a proper-is-menon. 

A dustman nock-named Seven-churches 

in the employ of Messrs Achburn, 

Soulpetre and Ash-reborn, 

prairmakers, 

Glintalook, 

was asked by the sisterhood the vexed question 

during his midday collation of leaver and buckrom 

alternatively with stenk and kitteney phie 

in a hash-housh 

and, thank-eaven, 

responsed impulsively: 

We have just been pro-pogandering his nullity suit 

and what they took out of his ear among my own crush. 

All our fellows at O’Dea’s sages with Aratar Calaman 

he is a cemented brick, buck it all! 

A more nor usually sober car-driver, 

who was jauntingly hosing his runabout, 

Ginger Jane, 

took a strong view. 

Lorry hosed her as he talked 

and this is what he told rewrite-men: 

Irewaker is just a plain pink joint reformee in private life 

but folks all have it by brehemons laws 

he has parliamentary honours. 

Eiskaffier said 

(Louigi’s, you know that man’s, brillant Savourain): 

Mon foie, you wish to ave some homelette, yes, lady! 

Good, mein leber! 

Your hegg he must break himself 

See, I crack, so, he sit in the poele, umbedimbt! 

A perspirer (over sixty) 

who was keeping up his tennises 

panted he kne ho har twa to clect infamatios 

but a diffpair flannels climb wall and trespassing on doorbell. 

After full-blown Braddon hear this fresky troter-ella!

A railways barmaid’s view 

(they call her (p60) Spill-tears Rue) 

was thus expressed: 

to sympathisers of the Dole Line, Death Avenue, 

anent those objects of her pity-prompted ministrance, 

to wet, man and his syphon. 

Ehim! 

It is ever too late to whissle when Phyllis floods her stable. 

It would be skarlot shame to jaila-him in lockup, 

as was proposed to him by the Seddoms creature 

what matter 

what merry-tricks went off 

with his revulver-her 

in connections with ehim being a norphan 

and enjoining such wicked illth, ehim! 

Well done, Drum-collakill! 

Kitty Tyrrel is proud of you, 

was the reply of a B.O.T. official 

(O blame gnot the board!) 

while the Daughters Benkletter murmured in uniswoon: 

Gol-forgil-his-jury-legs! 

Brian Lynsky, 

the cub curser, 

was questioned at his shouting box, 

Bawl-ona-braggat, 

and gave a snappy comeback, 

when saying: 

Paw! Once more I’ll hellbowl! 

I am for caveman chase and sahara sex, burk you! 

Them two bitches ought to be leashed, canem! 

Up hog and hoar hunt! 

Paw! 

A wouldbe martyr, 

who is attending on sanit Asitas 

where he is being taught to wear bracelets, 

when grilled on the point, 

revealed the undoubted fact 

that the consequence would be 

that so long as Sankya Moondy played his mango tricks 

under the mysttetry, 

with shady apsaras sheltering in his leaves’ licence 

and his shadowers torrifried by the potent bolts of indra-diction, 

there would be fights all over Cuxhaven. 

(Tosh!) 

Missioner Ida Wombwell, 

the seventeen-year-old revivalist, 

said concerning the coincident of inter-fizzing 

with grenadines and other respectable and disgusted peersons 

using the park: 

That perpendicular person is a brut! 

But a magnificent brut! 

‘Caligula’ 

(Mr Danl Magrath, bookmaker, 

well-known to East-railian poor-users of the Sydney Parade Ballotin) 

was, as usual, 

antipodal with his: 

striving todie, hopening tomellow, Ware Splash. 

Cobbler. 

We have meat two hourly, 

sang out El Caplan Buycout, 

with the famous padre’s turridur’s capecast, 

meet too ourly, matadear! 

Dan Meiklejohn, 

precentor, 

of S.S. Smack and Olley’s 

was probi-verbal with his upsi-duxit: 

mutatus mutandus. 

Dauran’s lord (‘Sniffpox’) and Moirgan’s lady (‘Flatterfun’) 

took sides and crossed and bowed to each other’s views 

and recrossed themselves. 

The dirty dubs upin their flies, 

went too free, 

echoed the dainly drabs downin their scenities, (p61) una mona. 

Sylvia Silence, the girl detective 

(Me-minerva, but by now one hears turtlings all over Doveland!) 

when supplied with informations as to the several facets of the case 

in her cozy-dozy bachelure’s flat, 

quite overlooking John a’Dream’s mews, 

leaned back in her really truly easy chair 

to query restfully 

through her vowel-threaded syllabelles: 

Have you evew thought, wepowtew, 

that sheew gweatness was his twadgedy? 

Nevewtheless accowding to my considewed attitudes 

fow this act he should pay the full penalty, 

pending puwsuance, 

as pew Subsec. 32, section II, 

of the C. L. A. act 1885, 

anything in this act to the contwawy not-withstanding. 

Jarley Jilke began to silke 

for he couldn’t get home to Jelsey 

but ended with: 

He’s got the sack that helped him moult 

instench of his gladsome rags. 

Meagher, a naval rating, 

seated on one of the granite cromlech setts 

of our new fish-shambles 

for the usual aireating 

after the ever popular act, 

with whom were Questa and Puella, 

piquante and quoite, 

(this had a cold in her brain while that felt a sink in her summock, 

wit’s wat, wot’s wet) 

was encouraged, 

although near-vanashed himself, 

by one of his co-affianced to get your breath, 

Walt, 

and gobbit and when ther chidden 

by her fastra sastra to saddle up your pance, 

Naville, thus cor replied to her other’s thanks-kissing: 

I lay my two finger-buttons, 

fiancee Meagher, 

(he speaks!) 

he was to blame about your two velvet-thighs up Horniman’s Hill

—as hook and eye blame him or any other piscman?

—but I also think, 

Puelly-wally, 

by the siege of his trousers there was someone else behind it

—you bet your boughtem blarneys

—about their three drummers down Keysars Lane. 

(Trite!).

——————————————————

Be these meer marchant taylor’s fablings 

of a race referend with oddman rex? 

Is now all seen-heard then forgotten? 

Can it was, 

one is fain in this leaden age of letters now to wit, 

that so diversified outrages 

(they have still to come!) 

were planned and partly carried out 

against so staunch a covenanter 

if it be true than any of those recorded ever took place for many, 

we trow, 

beyessed to and denayed of, 

are given to us by some who use the truth but sparingly 

and we, on this side ought to sorrow for their pricking pens 

on that account. 

The seventh city, 

Uro-vivla, (p62)

his citadear of refuge, 

whither 

(would we believe the laimen and their counts), 

beyond the outraved gales of Atreeatic, 

changing clues with a bagger-malster, 

the hejirite had fled, 

silentious-sue-meant under night’s alto-sonority, 

ship-alone, 

a raven of the wave, 

(be mercy, Mara! A he whence Rahoulas!) 

from the ostmen’s dirtby on the old vic, 

to forget in expiating manslaughter 

and, reberthing in remarriment out of dead seekness 

to devine previdence, 

(if you are looking for the bilder deep your ear on the movietone!) 

to league his lot, 

palm and patte, 

with a papishee. 

For mine qvinne I thee giftake and bind my hosenband I thee halter. 

The wastobe land, 

a lottuse land, 

a luctuous land, 

Emerald-illuim, 

the peasant pastured, 

in which by the fourth commandment 

with promise his days apostolic were to be long 

by the abundant mercy of Him Which Thundereth From On High, murmured, 

would rise against him 

with all which in them were, 

franchisables and inhabitands, 

astea as agora, 

helots-philots, 

do him hurt, 

poor jink, 

ghostly following bodily, 

as were he made a curse for them, 

the corruptible lay quick, 

all saints of incorruption-of-an holy nation, 

the common or erein-garden castaway, 

in red resurrection to condemn so they might convince him, 

first pharoah, 

Humpheres Cheops Exarchas, 

of their proper sins. 

Business bred to speak with a stiff upper lip 

to all men and most occasions 

the Man we wot of took little short of fighting chances 

but for all that he or his or his care 

were subjected to the horrors of the premier terror of Errorland. (perorhaps!)

——————————————————

We seem to us (the real Us!) 

to be reading our Amenti 

in the sixth sealed chapter of the going forth by black. 

It was after the show at Wednesbury that one tall man, 

humping a suspicious parcel, 

when returning late 

amid a dense particular 

on his home way from the second house 

of the Boore and Burgess Christy Menestrels 

by the old spot, Roy’s Corner, 

had a barkiss revolver placed to his faced with the words: 

you’re shot, major: 

by an unknowable assailant (masked) 

against whom he had been jealous over, 

Lotta Crabtree or Pomona Evlyn. 

More than that Whenn the Waylayer 

(not a Lucalizod diocesan 

or even of the Glendalough see, 

but hailing fro’ the prow of Little Britain), 

mentioning (p63) in a bytheway that he, 

the crawsopper, 

had, in edition to Reade’s cutless centi-blade, 

a loaded Hobson’s which left only twin alternatives 

as, viceversa, either he would surely shoot her, 

the aunt, by pistol, 

(she could be okay-sure of that!) 

or, failing of such, 

bash in Patch’s blank face beyond recognition, 

pointedly asked with gaeilish gall 

wodkar blizzard’s business Thornton had with that Kane’s fender 

only to be answered by the aggravated assaulted 

that that that was the snaps for him, 

Midweeks, to sultry well go and find out if he was showery well able. 

But how transparingly nontrue, gentle-writer! 

His feet one is not a tall man, not at all, man. 

No such parson. 

No such fender. 

No such lumber. 

No such race. 

Was it supposedly in connection with a girls, 

Myramy Huey or Colores Archer, 

under Flaggy Bridge 

(for ann there is but one liv and hir newbridge is her old) 

or to explode his twelve-chamber 

and force a shrievalty entrance 

that the heavy-built Abel-body 

in a butcher-blue blouse 

from One Life One Suit 

(a men’s wear store), 

with a most decisive bottle of single in his possession, 

seized after dark by the town guard 

at Have-you-caught-emerod’s temperance gateway 

was there in a gate’s way.

——————————————————-

Fifthly, 

how para-soliloquisingly true-toned on his first time of hearing 

the wretch’s statement that, 

muttering Irish, 

he 

had 

had 

had o’gloriously a’lot too much hanguest or hoshoe fine 

to drink in the House of Blazes, 

the Parrot in Hell, 

the Orange Tree, 

the Glibt, 

the Sun, 

the Holy Lamb 

and, lapse not leashed, 

in Ramitdown’s ship hotel 

since the morning moment 

he could dixtinguish a white thread from a black 

till the engine of the laws declosed unto Murray 

and was only falling fill-the-fluthered up against the gatestone pier 

which, 

with the cow’s bonnet a’top o’it, 

he falsetook for a cattle-pillar with purest peaceablest intentions. 

Yet how lamely hobbles the hoy 

of his then pseudo-jocax axplanation 

how, according to his own story, 

he vas a process server 

and was merely trying to open zozimus 

a bottlop stoub by mortially hammering his magnum bonum 

(the curter the club the sorer the savage) 

against the bludgey gate 

for the boots about the swan, 

Maurice Behan, 

who hastily 

into his shoes 

with nothing his hald barra tinnteack 

and came down with homp, (p64) shtemp and jumphet 

to the tilt-yard from the wastes a’sleep 

in his obi ohny over-clothes or choker, 

attracted by the norse of guns 

playing Delandy is cartager on the raglar rock to Dulyn, 

said war’ prised safe in bed 

as he dreamed that he’d wealthes in mormon halls 

when wokenp by a fourth loud snore 

out of his land of byelo 

while hickstrey’s maws 

was grazing in the moonlight 

by hearing hammering on the pandy-whank scale 

emanating from the blind pig 

and anything like it 

(oonagh!oonagh!) 

in the whole history of the Mullingcan Inn he never. 

This battering babel allower the door and sideposts, 

he always said, 

was not in the very remotest like the belzey babble 

of a bottle of boose 

which would not rouse him out o’ slumber deep 

but reminded him loads more 

of the martiall-awsey marses of foreign musikants’ instrumongs 

or the over-threwer to the third last days of Pompery, 

if anything. 

And that after this most nooning-less knockturn 

the young reine came down desperate 

and the old liffo-potamus started ploring all over the plains, 

as mud as she cud be, 

ruinating all the bouchers’ schurts 

and the backers’ wischandtugs 

so that be the chandeleure of the Rejaney-jailey 

they were all night wasching the walters of, 

the weltering walters off. 

Whyte.

————————————————————-

Just one moment. 

A pinch in time of the ideal, musketeers! 

Alphos, Burkos and Caramis, 

leave Astrelea for the astroll-a-jerries 

and for the love of the saunces 

and the honour of Keavens pike puddy-whack-back to Pamintul. 

And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world! 

And call all your smoke-blushes, 

Snowwhite and Rosered, 

if you will have the real cream! 

Now for a strawberry frolic! 

Filons, filoosh! 

Cherchons la flamme! 

Fammfamm! Fammfamm!

——————————————-

Come on, 

ordinary man with that large big nonobli head, 

and that blanko berbecked fischial ekksprezzion 

Machinsky Scapolopolos, 

Duzinascu or other. 

Your machelar’s mutton leg’s getting muscle-bound 

from being too pulled. 

Noah Beery weighed stone thousand one when Hazel was a hen. 

Now her fat’s falling fast. 

Therefore, chatbags, why not yours? 

There are 29 sweet reasons why blossomtime’s the best. 

Elders fall for green almonds 

when (p65) they’re raised on bruised stone root ginger 

though it winters on their heads 

as if auctumned round their waistbands. 

If you’d had pains in your hairs you wouldn’t look so orgibald. 

You’d have Colley Macaires on your lump of lead. 

Now listen, Mr Leer! 

And stow that sweaty-funny-adams Simper! 

Take an old geeser who calls on his skirt. 

Note his sleek hair, so elegant, tableau vivant. 

He vows her to be his own honey-lamb, 

swears they will be papa pals, 

by Sam, 

and share good times way down west 

in a guaranteed happy lovenest 

when May moon she shines 

and they twit twinkle all the night, 

combing the comet’s tail up right 

and shooting popguns at the stars. 

Cream-puffs all to dime! 

Every nice, missy-mackenzies! 

For dear old grumpapar, 

he’s gone on the razzledar, 

through gazing and crazing and blazing at the stars. 

Compree! 

She wants her wardrobe to hear from above 

by return with cash 

so as she can buy her Peter Robinson trousseau 

and cut a dash with Arty, Bert or possibly Charley Chance 

(who knows?) 

so tolloll Mr Hunker you’re too dada for me to dance 

(so off she goes!) 

and that’s how half the gels in town has got their bottom drars 

while grumpapar he’s trying to hitch his braces on to his trars. 

But old grum he’s not so clean dippy 

between sweet you and yum 

(not on your life, boy! 

not in those trousers! 

not by a large jugful!) 

for someplace on the sly, 

where Furphy he isn’t by, 

old grum has his gel number two 

(bravevow, our Grum!) 

and he would like to canoodle her too 

some part of the time 

for he is downright fond of his number one 

but O he’s fair mashed on peaches number two 

so that if he could only canoodle the two, 

chivee chivoo, 

all three would feel genuinely happy, 

it’s as simple as A. B. C., 

the two mixers, 

we mean, 

with their cherry-bum chappy 

(for he is simply shamming dippy) 

if they all were afloat in a dream-life-boat, 

hugging two by two in his zoo-doo-you-doo, 

a toff-toff for thee, 

missy-missy for me 

and how-came-you-e’enso for Farber, 

in his tippy, 

up-in-down dippy, 

tip-top-tippy canoodle, 

can you? 

Finny.

———————————————————

Ack, ack, ack. 

With which clap, trap and soddenment, 

three to a loaf, 

our mutual friends the fender and the bottle at the gate 

seem to be implicitly in the same bateau, 

so to singen, 

bearing also (p66) several of the earmarks of design, 

for there is in fact no use in putting a tooth in a snipery of that sort 

and the amount of all those sort of things 

which has been going on 

once-a-day in and twice-a-day out 

every other nachtistag 

among all kinds of promiscious individuals 

at all ages 

in private homes and reeboos publikiss 

and allover all and elsewhere 

throughout secular sequence the country over 

and overabroad has been particularly stupendous. 

To be continued. 

Federals’ Uniteds’ Transports’ Unions’ 

for Exultations’ of Triumphants’ Ecstasies.

—————————————————

But resuming inquiries. 

Will it ever be next morning the postal unionist’s 

(officially called carrier’s, Letters Scotch, Limited) 

strange fate 

(Fierce-end-giddy-ex he’s hight, d.e., 

the losel that hucks around missive-maids’ gummi-backs) 

to hand in a huge chain envelope, 

written in seven divers stages of ink, 

from blanch-essance to lavandaiette, 

every pothook and pancrook bespaking the wisher-wife, 

superscribed and sub-pencilled by yours A Laughable Party, 

with afterwite, 

S.A.G., to Hyde and Cheek, Edenberry, Dubblenn, WC? 

Will whatever will be written in lappish language 

with inbursts of Maggyer always seem semposed, 

black looking white and white guarding black, 

in that siamixed two-a-talk used twist stern swift and jolly roger? 

Will it bright upon us, nightle, 

and we plunging to our plight? 

Well, it might now, mircle, so it light. 

Always and ever till Cox’s wife, 

twice Mrs Hahn, 

pokes her beak into the matter 

with Owen K. after her, 

to see whawa smutter after, 

will this kiribis pouch 

filled with litterish fragments 

lurk dormant in the paunch of that halp-brother of a herm, 

a pillar-box?

————————————-

The coffin, 

a triumph of the illusionist’s art, 

at first blench naturally taken for a handharp 

(it is handwarp to tristinguish jubabe from jabule 

or either from tubote 

when all three have just been invened) 

had been removed from the hardware premises 

of Oetzmann and Nephew, 

a noted house of the gonemost west, 

which in the natural course of all things 

continues to supply funeral requisites of every needed description. 

Why needed, though? 

Indeed needed 

(wouldn’t you feel like rattan-fowl if you hadn’t the oscar!) 

because the flash brides or bride 

in their lily (p67) boleros one games 

with at the Nivy-nubies’ finery ball 

and your upright grooms 

that always come right up with you 

(and by jingo when they do!) 

what else in this mortal world, 

now ours, 

when meet there night, 

mid their nackt, 

me there naket, 

made their nought the hour strikes, 

would bring them right-came back in the flesh, 

thumbs down, 

to their orses and their hashes.

———————————————————-

To proceed. 

We might leave that nitrience of oxagiants 

to take its free of the air 

and just anal-ectralyse that very chymerical combination, 

the gasbag where the warder-works. 

And try to pour somour heiter-scene up the-almost-fere. 

In the bottled heliose case continuing, 

Long Lally Tobkids, 

the special, 

sporting a fine breast of medals, 

and a conscientious scripture-reader to boot 

in the brick and tin choorch round the coroner, 

swore like a Nore-wheezian tailliur on the stand 

before the proper functionary 

that he was up against a right querr-shnorrt of a mand 

in the butcher of the blues who, 

he guntinued, 

on last epening after delivering 

some carcasses matton-chepps and meat-jutes 

on behalf of Messrs Otto Sands and Eastman, 

Limericked, Victuallers, 

went and, 

with his unmitigated astonissment, 

hickicked at the dun and dorass against all the runes 

and, when challenged about the pretended hick 

(it was kickup and down with him) 

on his solemn by the imputant imputed, 

said simply: 

I appop pie oath, Phillyps Captain. 

You did, as I so-stressed before. 

You are deep-knee in error, sir, 

Madam Tomkins, 

let me then tell you, 

replied with a gentle-womanly salaam MackPartland, 

(the meatman’s family, and the oldest in the world except nick, name.) 

And Phelps was flayful with his peeler. 

But his phizz fell.

———————————————————-

Now to the obverse. 

From velveteens to dimities is barely a five-finger span 

and hence these camel-back excesses 

are thought to have been instigated 

by one or either of the causing causes of all, 

those rushy hollow heroines in their skirt-sleeves, 

be she magretta be she the posque. 

Oh! Oh! 

Because it is a horrible thing to have to say to say to day 

but one dilalah, Lupita Lorette, 

shortly after in a fit of the unexpectednesses 

drank carbolic with all her dear placid life before her 

and paled off while the other soiled dove that’s her sister-in-love, 

Luperca Latouche, 

finding (p68) one day while dodging chores 

that she stripped teasily for binocular man 

and that her jambs were jimp-joyed to see each other, 

the nautchy girly soon found her fruitful hat too small for her 

and rapidly taking time, look, 

she rapidly took to necking, 

partying and selling her spare favours 

in the haymow 

or in lumber closets 

or in the greenawn ad huck 

(there are certain intimacies in all ladies’ lavastories 

we just lease to imagination) 

or in the sweet churchyard close itself 

for a bit of soft coal 

or an array of thin trunks, 

serving whom in fine 

that same hot coney a la Zingara 

which our own little Graunya of the chili-red cheeks 

dished up to the greatsire of Oscar, 

that son of a Coole. 

Houri of the coast of emerald, 

arrah of the lacessive poghue, 

Aslim-all-Muslim, 

the resigned to her surrender, 

did not she, 

come leinster’s even, 

true dotter of a dearmud, 

(her pitch was Forty Steps and his perch old Cromwell’s Quarters) 

with so valkirry a licence 

as sent many a poor pucker packing to perdition, 

again and again, 

ay, and again 

sfidare him, 

tease fido, 

eh tease fido, 

eh eh tease fido, 

toos topples topple, 

stop, dug of a dog of a dgiaour, ye! 

Ange-alous-mei! 

And did not he, 

like Arco-forty, 

far-far off Bissa-volo, 

missbrand her behaveyous with iridescent huecry 

of down right mean false sop lap sick dope? 

Tawfuls-dreck! 

A reine of the shee, a shebeen quean, a queen of pranks. 

A kingly man, of royal mien, regally robed, exalted be his glory! 

So gave so take: Now not, not now! 

He would just a min. 

Suffering trumpet! 

He thought he want. 

Whath? 

Hear, O hear, living of the land! 

Hungreb, dead era, hark! 

He hea, eyes ravenous on her lippling lills. 

He hear her voi of day gon by. 

He hears! 

Zay, zay, zay! 

But, by the beer of his profit, he cannot answer. 

Upter-putty till rise and shine! 

Nor needs none shaft ne stele 

from Phenicia or Little Asia to obelise on the spout, 

neither pobal-clock neither folks-stone, 

nor sunkenness in Tomar’s Wood 

to bewray how erpress-gangs score off the rued. 

The mouth that tells not will ever attract the unthinking tongue 

and so long as the obseen draws theirs 

which hear not so long 

till allearth’s dumbnation shall the blind lead the deaf. 

Tatcho, tawney yeeklings! 

The column of lumps lends the pattrin of the leaves behind us. 

If violence to life, limb and chattels, 

often as (p69) not, 

has been the expression, 

direct or through an agent male, 

of womanhid offended, 

(ah! ah!), 

has not levy of black mail 

from the times the fairies were in it, 

and fain for wilde erthe blothoms 

followed an impressive private reputation for whispered sins?

————————————————————-

Now by memory inspired, 

turn wheel again to the whole of the wall. 

Where Gyant Blyant fronts Peannlueamoore 

There was once upon a wall 

and a hoog-hoog wall a was 

and such a wall-hole did exist. 

Ere ore or ire in Aaarlund. 

Or you Dair’s Hair 

or you Diggin Mosses 

or your horde of orts and oriorts 

to garble a garthen of Odin 

and the lost paladays 

when all the eddams ended with aves. 

Armen? 

The doun is theirs and still to see for menags 

if he strikes a lous-a-foritch 

and we’ll come to those bare-gazed shoeshines 

if you just shoodov a second. 

And let oggs be good old gaggles 

and Isther Estarr play Yesther Asterr. 

In the drema of Sorestost Areas, Diseased. 

A stone-hinged gate then was for another thing 

while the sur-optimist had bought and enlarged that shack 

under fair rental of one yearlyng sheep, 

(prime) 

value of sixpence, 

and one small yearlyng goat 

(cadet) 

value of eightpence, 

to grow old and happy 

(hogg it and kidd him) 

for the reminants of his years; 

and when everything was got up for the purpose 

he put an applegate on the place 

by no means 

as some pretext a bedstead in loo thereof 

to keep out donkeys 

(the pigdirt hanging from the jags to this hour makes that clear) 

and just then-abouts the iron gape, 

by old custom left open to prevent the cats from getting at the gout, 

was triple-patlockt on him 

on purpose 

by his faithful poorters 

to keep him inside 

probably and possibly enaunter 

he felt like sticking out his chest too far 

and tempting gracious providence 

by a stroll on the peoplade’s eggday, 

unused as he was yet to being freely clodded.

———————————————————-

O, by the by, lets wee brag of praties, 

it ought to be always remembered 

in connection with what has gone before 

that there was a north-roomer, 

Herr Betreffender, 

out for his zimmer holedigs, 

digging in number 32 at the Rum and Puncheon 

(Branch of Dirty Dick’s free house) 

in Laxlip 

(where the Sockeye Sammons were stopping at the time orange fasting) prior to that, 

a Kommerzial 

(Gorbo-ti-pacco, he was wreaking like Zentral Oyl-rubber) 

(p70) from Osterich, the U.S.E. paying 

(Gaul save the mark!) 

II/- in the week 

(Gosh, these wholly romads!) 

of conscience money in the first deal of Yuly 

wheil he was, 

swishing beesnest with blessure, 

and swobbing broguen eeriesh myth brocken-dootsch, 

making his reporterage on Der Fall Adams for the Franko-furto Siding, 

a Fastland payrodicule, 

and er, consstated that one had on him the Lynn O’Brien, 

a meltoned lammswolle, 

disturbed, 

and wider he might the same zurich-schicken other he would, 

with tosend and ober-tosend tonno-watters, 

one monkey’s damages become. 

Now you must know, franksman, 

to make a heart of glass, 

that the game of gaze and bandstand butchery 

was merely a Patsy O’Strap tissue of threats and obuses 

such as roebucks raugh at pinnacle’s peak 

and after this sort. 

Humphrey’s unsolicited visitor, 

Davy or Titus, 

on a burgley’s clan march from the middle west, 

a hikely excellent crude man about road 

who knew his Bullfoost Mountains like a starling bierd, 

after doing a long dance untidled to Cloudy Green, 

deposend his bock-stump on the wait-you-may-want-me, 

after having blew some quaker’s 

(for you! Oates!) 

in through the house-king’s keyhole to attract attention, 

bleated through the gale 

outside which the tairor of his clothes was hog-callering, 

first, be the hirsuiter, 

that he would break his bulshey-wigger’s head for him, 

next, be the heel-tapper, 

that he would break the gage over his lanky-duckling head 

the same way he would crack a nut with a monkey-wrench 

and, last of all, 

be the stir-abouter, 

that he would give him his 

(or the-umperom’s or anybloody else’s) 

thicker-than-water to drink 

and his bleday steppe-brodhar’s into the bucket. 

He demanded more wood alcohol to pitch in with, 

alleging that his granfather’s was all taxis 

and that it was only after ten o’connell, 

and this his isbar was a public oven 

for the sake of irsk irskusky, 

and then, not easily discouraged, 

opened the wrath-floods of his atillarery 

and went on at a wicked rate, 

weathering against him in mooxed metaphores 

from eleven thirty to two in the afternoon 

without even a luncheonette interval 

for House, son of Clod, to come out, you jewbeggar, 

to be Executed Amen. 

Earwicker, 

that pattern-mind, 

that paradigmatic ear, 

recepto-retentive as his of Dionysius, 

(p71) long-suffering although whitening under restraint 

in the sit-it-out corner of his conservatory, 

behind famine-built walls, 

his thermos flask and ripidian flabel by his side 

and a walrus whisker-bristle for a tuskpick, 

compiled, 

while he mourned the flight of his wild guineese, 

a long list (now feared in part lost) 

to be kept on file 

of all abusive names he was called 

(we have been compelled 

for the rejoicement of foinne loidies 

ind the humours of Milltown etcetera 

by Josephine Brewster 

in the collision known as Contrastations with Inkermann 

and so on and so-nonward, 

lacies in loo water, flee, celestials, one clean turv): 

Firstnighter, Informer, Old Fruit, Yellow Whigger, Wheatears, Goldy Geit, Bogside Beauty, Yass We’ve Had His Badannas, York’s Porker, Funnyface, At Baggotty’s Bend He Bumped, Grease with the Butter, Opendoor Ospices, Cain-and-abler, Ireland’s Eighth Wonderful Wonder, Beat My Price, Godsoilman, Moonface the Murderer, Hoary Hairy Hoax, Midnight Sunburst, Remove that Bible, Hebdromadary Publocation, Tummer the Lame the Tyrannous, Blau Clay, Tight before Teatime, Real Your Pantojoke, Acoustic Disturbance, Thinks He’s Gobblasst the Good Dook of Ourguile, W.D.’s Grace, Gibbering Bayamouth of Dublin, His Farther was a Mundzucker and She had him in a Growler, Burnham and Bailey, Artist, Unworthy of the Homely Protestant Religion, Terry Cotter, You’re Welcome to Waterfood, signed the Ribbonmen, Lobsterpot Lardling, All for Arthur of this Town, Hooshed the Cat from the Bacon, Leathertogs Donald, The Ace and Deuce of Paupering, O’Reilly’s Delights to Kiss the Man behind the Borrel, Magogagog, Swad Puddlefoot, Gouty Ghibeline, Loose Luther, Hatches Cocks’ Eggs, Muddle the Plan, Luck before Wedlock, I Divorce Thee Husband, Tanner and a Make, Go to Hellena or Come to Connies, Piobald Puffpuff His Bride, Purged out of Burke’s, He’s None of Me Causin, Barebarean, Peculiar Person, Grunt Owl’s Facktotem, Twelve Months Aristocrat, Lycanthrope, Flunkey Beadle Vamps the Tune Letting on He’s Loney, Thunder and Turf Married into Clandorf, Left Boot Sent on Approval, Cumberer of Lord’s Holy Ground, Stodge Arschmann, Awnt Yuke, Tommy Furlong’s Pet Plagues, Archdukon Cabbanger, Last Past the Post, Kennealey Won’t Tell Thee off Nancy’s Gown, (p72) Scuttle to Cover, Salary Grab, Andy Mac Noon in Annie’s Room, Awl Out, Twitch-bratsch-balls, Bombard Street Bester, Sublime Porter, A Ban for Le King of the Burgaans and a Bom for Ye Sur of all the Ruttledges, O’Phelim’s Cutprice, And at Number Wan Wan Wan, What He Done to Castlecostello, Sleeps with Feathers end Ropes, It is Known who Sold Horace the Rattler, Enclosed find the Sons of Fingal, Swayed in his Falling, Wants a Wife and Forty of Them, Let Him Do the Fair, Apee-gee-quanee Chimmuck, Plowp Goes his Whastle, Ruin of the Small Trader, He-Milking-honey-beaver-brooker, Vee was a Vindner, Sower Rapes, Armenian Atrocity, Sickfish Bellyup, Edomite,—‘Man Devoyd of the Commoner Characteristics of an Irish Nature, Bad Humborg, Hraab-hraab, Coo-coo-handler, Dirt, Miching Daddy, Born Burst Feet Foremost, Woolworth’s Worst, Easyathic Phallusaphist, Guiltey-pig’s Bastard, Fast in the Barrel, Boose in the Bed, Mister Fatmate, In Custody of the Polis, Boawwll’s Alocutionist, Deposed, 

but anarchistically respectsful 

of the liberties of the non-invasive individual, 

did not respond a solitary wedge-word beyond such sedentarity, 

though it was as easy as kiss-anywhere 

for the passive resistant in the booth he was in 

to reach for the hello gripes 

and ring up Kimmage Outer 17.67, 

because, as the fundamentalist explained, 

when at last shocked into speech, 

touchin his woundid feelins in the fuchsiar 

the dominican mission for the sowsealist potty 

was on at the time 

and he thought the rowmish devowtion 

known as the howly rowsary 

might reeform ihm, Gonn. 

That more than considerably unpleasant bullocky 

before he rang off drunkishly 

pegged a few glatt stones, 

all of a size, 

by way of final mocks for his grapes, 

at the wicket in support of his words 

that he was not guilphy but, 

after he had so slaunga vollayed, 

reconnoitring through his semi-subconscious 

the seriousness of what he might have done 

had he really polished off his terrible intentions 

finally caused him to change the bawling 

and leave downg the whole grumus of brook-pebbles pang-pung 

and, having sobered up a bit, 

paces his groundould diablen lionndub, 

the flay the flegm, 

the floedy fleshener, 

(purse, purse, pursyfurse, I’ll splish the splume of them all!) 

this back-blocks boor bruskly put out (p73) his langwedge 

and quite quit the paleo-logic scene, 

telling how by his self-denying ordnance 

he had left Hyland on the dissenting table, 

after exhorting Earwicker 

or, in slightly modified phraseology, 

Messrs or Missrs Earwicker, Seir, 

his feminisible name of multitude, 

to cocoa come outside to Mockerloo out of that 

for the honour of Crumlin, 

with his broody old flishguds, 

Gog’s curse to thim, 

so as he could brianslog and burst him all dizzy, 

you go bail, 

like Potts Fracture did with Keddle Flatnose 

and nobody-at-all with Wholy-phamous 

and build rocks over him, 

or if he didn’t, 

for two and thirty straws, 

be Cacao Campbell, 

he didn’t know what he wouldn’t do for him 

nor nobody else nomore 

nor him after which, 

batell martell, 

a brisha a milla a stroka a boola, 

so the rage of Malbruk, 

playing on the least change of his man-jester’s voice, 

the first heroic couplet from the fuguall tropical, 

Opus Elf, Thortytoe: 

My schemes into obeyance for This time has had to fall: 

they bit goodbyte to their thumb 

and, his bandol eer his solgier, 

drip-drop-drap on pool or poldier, 

wishing the loff a falla-delfian in the morning, 

proceeded with a Hubble-forth slouch in his slips backwords 

(Et Cur Heli!) 

in the directions of the duff and demb institutions 

about ten or eleven hundred years lurch away 

in the moon-shiny gorge of Patself on the Bach. 

Adyoe!

—————————————————

And thus, 

with this rochelly exetur of Bully Acre, 

came to close that last stage in the siegings 

round our archi-citadel 

which we would like to recall, 

if old Nestor Alexis would wink the worth for us, 

as Bar-le-Duc and Dog-an-Doras and Bangen-op-Zoom.

————————————————-

Yed he med leave to many a door beside of Oxmanswold 

for so witness his chambered cairns 

a cloud-let-litter silent 

that are at browse up hill and down coombe 

and on eoli-thostro-ton, 

at Howth or at Coolock or even at Enniskerry, 

a theory none too rectiline 

of the evoluation of human society 

and a testament of the rocks 

from all the dead unto some the living. 

Olivers lambs we do call them, 

skatterlings of a stone, 

and they shall be gathered unto him, 

their herd and paladin, 

as nubilettes to cumule, 

in that day hwen, 

same the lightning lancer of Azava (p74) Arthur-honoured 

(some Finn, some Finn avant!), 

he skall wake from earthsleep, 

haught crested elmer, 

in his valle of briers of Greenman’s Rise O, 

(lost leaders live! the heroes return!) 

and o’er dun and dale the Wulver-ulver-lord 

(protect us!) 

his mighty horn skall roll, orland, roll.

———————————————————-

For in those deyes his Deyus shall ask of All-prohome 

and call to himm: 

All-prohome! 

And he make answer: Add some. 

Nor wink nor wunk. 

Anima-diabolum, mene credidisti mortuum? 

Silence was in thy faustive halls, 

O Truiga, 

when thy green woods went dry 

but there will be sounds of many-mirth 

on the night’s ear ringing 

when our pantriarch of Comes-town-tonobble 

gets the pullover on his boots.

————————————————————

Liverpoor? 

Sot a bit of it! 

His braynes coolt parritch, 

his pelt nassy, 

his heart’s adrone, 

his bluid-streams acrawl, 

his puff but a piff, 

his extremeties extremely so: 

Fengless, Pawmbroke, Chil-blaimend and Baldowl. 

Humph is in his doge. 

Words weigh no no more to him than raindrips to Rethfernhim. 

Which we all like. 

Rain. 

When we sleep. 

Drops. 

But wait until our sleeping. 

Drain. 

Sdops.