View source for Page 359

From FinnegansWiki

← Page 359

You do not have permission to edit this page, for the following reasons:

• The action you have requested is limited to users in the group: Users.
• You must confirm your email address before editing pages. Please set and validate your email address through your user preferences.

---

You can view and copy the source of this page.

[[TOC]] [[Page 358]] [[Page 360]] hod's fush, 3) all ever the pelican huntered with truly fond bull- pen backthought since his toork human life where his personal low outhired his taratoryism, the orenore under the selfhide of his bessermettle, was forsake in his chiltern and lumbojumbo, 4) he was like Fintan fore flood and after sometimes too damned merely often on the saved side, saw he was, 5) regarding to prussyattes or quazzyverzing he wassand no better than he would have been before he could have been better than what he warrant after, 6) blood, musk or haschish, as coked, diamoned or pence- loid, and bleaching him naclenude from all cohlorine matter, down to a boneash bittstoff, he's, tink fors tank, the same old dustamount on the same old tincoverdull baubleclass, totstitty- winktosser and bogusbagwindburster, whether fitting tyres onto Danelope boys or fluttering flaus for laurettas, whatever the bucket brigade and the plug party says, touchant Arser of the Rum Tipple and his camelottery and lyonesslooting but with a layaman's brutstrenth, by Jacohob and Esahur and the all saults or all sallies, what we warn to hear, jeff, is the woods of chirpsies cries to singaloo sweecheeriode and sock him up, the oldcant rogue. Group A. You have jest (a ham) beamed listening through (a ham pig) his haulted excerpt from John Whiston's fiveaxled production, <I>The Coach With The Six Insides</I>, from the Tales of Yore of the times gone by before there was a hofdking or a hoovthing or a pinginapoke in Oreland, all sould. Goes Tory by Eeric Whigs is To Become Tintinued in <I>Fearson's Nightly</I> in the Lets All Wake Brickfaced In Lucan. Lhirondella, jaunty lhirondella! With tirra lirra rondinelles, atantivy we go! Attention! Stand at!! Ease!!! We are now diffusing among our lovers of this sequence (to you! to you!) the dewfolded song of the naughtingels (Alys! Alysaloe!) from their sheltered positions, in rosescenery hay- dyng, on the heather side of waldalure, Mount Saint John's, Jinnyland, whither our allies winged by duskfoil from Moore- parque, swift sanctuary seeking, after Sunsink gang (Oiboe!

Return to Page 359.