Only for my short Brittas bed made’s as snug as it smells it’s out I’d lep and off with me to the slobs deua Tolka or the plage au Clontarf to feale the gay aire of my salt troublin bay and the race of the saywint up me ambushure. Is there irwell a lord of the manor or a knight of the shire at strike, I wonder, that’d dip me a dace or two in cash for washing and darning his worshipful socks for him now we’re run out of horse-brose and milk? Well, you know, when the old cheb went futt and did what you know.
Was his help inshored in the Stork and Pelican against bungelars, flu and third risk par-ties? Tune your pipes and fall ahumming, you born ijypt, and you’re no-thing short of one! When they saw him shoot swift up her sheba sheath, like any gay lord salomon, her bulls they were ruhring, surfed with spree.
For the putty affair I have is wore out, so it is, sitting, yaping and waiting for my old Dane hodder dodderer, my life in death companion, my frugal key of our larder, my much-altered camel’s hump, my jointspoiler, my maymoon’s honey, my fool to the last Decemberer, to wake himself out of his winter’s doze and bore me down like he used to.
By earth end the cloudy but I badly went e brandnew bankside, bedamp and I do, and a plumper at that!
And then she’d esk to vistule a hymn, The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow or Chelli Michele’s La Calumnia Š un Vermicelli or a balfy bit ov old Jo Robidson. She’d bate the hen that crowed on the turrace of Babbel. And not a mag out of Hum no more than out of the mangle weight. — in a period gown of changeable jade that would robe the wood of two cardinals’ chairs and crush poor Cullen and smother Mac–Cabe.
) for to plaise that man hog stay his stomicker till her pyrraknees shrunk to nutmeg graters while her togglejoints shuck with goyt and as rash as she’d russ with her peakload of vivers up on her sieve (metauwero rage it swales and rieses) my hardey Hek he’d kast them frome him, with a stour of scorn, as much as to say you sow and you sozh, and if he didn’t peg the platteau on her tawe, believe you me, she was safe enough. Then riding the ricka and roya romanche, Annona, gebroren aroostokrat Nivia, dochter of Sense and Art, with Sparks’ pirryphlickathims funk-ling her fan, anner frostivying tresses dasht with virevlies, — while the prom beauties sreeked nith their bearers’ skins! And brahming to him down the feedchute, with her femtyfyx kinds of fondling endings, the poother rambling off her nose: Vuggybarney, Wickerymandy! Do you know what she started cheeping after, with a choicey voicey like water-glucks or Madame Delba to Romeoreszk?
Throwing all the neiss little whores in the world at him!