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of sweetempered gunpowdered didst unto dudst but it never
stphruck your mudhead's obtundity (O hell, here comes our
funeral! O pest, I'll miss the post!) that the more carrots you
chop, the more turnips you slit, the more murphies you peel, the
more onions you cry over, the more bullbeef you butch, the
more mutton you crackerhack, the more potherbs you pound,
the fiercer the fire and the longer your spoon and the harder you
gruel with more grease to your elbow the merrier fumes your
new Irish stew.
    O, by the way, yes,another thing occurs to me. You let me tell 
you, with the utmost politeness, were very ordinarily designed,
your birthwrong was, to fall in with Plan, as our nationals
should, as all nationists must, and do a certain office (what, I will
not tell you) in a certain holy office (nor will I say where) during
certain agonising office hours (a clerical party all to yourself) from
such a year to such an hour on such and such a date at so and
so much a week pro anno (Guinness's, may I remind, were just
agulp for you, failing in which you might have taken the scales off
boilers like any boskop of Yorek) and do your little thruppenny
bit and thus earn from the nation true thanks, right here in our
place of burden, your bourne of travail and ville of tares, where
after a divine's prodigence you drew the first watergasp in your
life, from the crib where you once was bit to the crypt you'll
be twice as shy of, same as we, long of us, alone with the colt
in the curner, where you were as popular as an armenial with
the faithful, and you set fire to my tailcoat when I hold the
paraffin smoker under yours (I hope that chimney's clear) but,
slackly shirking both your bullet and your billet, you beat it
backwards like Boulanger from Galway (but he combed the grass
against his stride) to sing us a song of alibi, (the cuthone call over
the greybounding slowrolling amplyheaving metamorphoseous
that oozy rocks parapangle their preposters with) nomad, mooner
by lamplight, antinos, shemming amid everyone's repressed
laughter to conceal your scatchophily by mating, like a thorough-
paste prosodite, masculine monosyllables of the same numerical
mus, an Irish emigrant the wrong way out, sitting on your crooked