Page 393
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Jump to navigationJump to searchsmell of Shakeletin and scratchman and his mouth watering, acid
and alkolic; signs on the salt, and so now pass the loaf for Christ
sake. Amen. And so. And all.
Matt. And loaf. So that was the end. And it can't be helped.
Ah, God be good to us! Poor Andrew Martin Cunningham!
Take breath! Ay! Ay!
And still and all at that time of the dynast days of old konning
Soteric Sulkinbored and Bargomuster Bart, when they struck coil
and shock haunts, in old Hungerford-on-Mudway, where first I
met thee oldpoetryck flied from may, and the Finnan haddies and
the Noal Sharks and the muckstails turtles like an acoustic pot-
tish and the griesouper bullyum and how he poled him up his
boccat of vuotar and got big buzz for his name in the airweek's
honours from home, colonies and empire, they were always with
assisting grace, thinking (up) and not forgetting about shims and
shawls week, in auld land syne (up) their four hosenbands, that
were four (up) beautiful sister misters, now happily married, unto
old Gallstonebelly, and there they were always counting and con-
tradicting every night 'tis early the lovely mother of periwinkle
buttons, according to the lapper part of their anachronism (up
one up two up one up four) and after that there now she was,
in the end, the deary, soldpowder and all, the beautfour sisters,
and that was her mudhen republican name, right enough, from
alum and oves, and they used to be getting up from under, in
their tape and straw garlands, with all the worries awake in their
hair, at the kookaburra bell ringring all wrong inside of them
(come in, come on, you lazy loafs !) all inside their poor old Shan-
don bellbox (come out to hell, you lousy louts!) so frightened,
for the dthclangavore, like knockneeghs bumpsed by the fister-
man's straights, (ys ! ys !), at all hours every night, on their mistle-
toes, the four old oldsters, to see was the Transton Postscript
come, with their oerkussens under their armsaxters, all puddled
and mythified, the way the wind wheeled the schooler round,
when nobody wouldn't even let them rusten, from playing
their gastspiels, crossing their sleep by the shocking silence,
when they were in dreams of yore, standing behind the
