Page 453
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Jump to navigationJump to searchof our, alas, those times are not so far off as you might wish to be congealed. So now, I'll ask of you, let ye create no scenes in my poor primmafore's wake. I don't want yous to be billow- fighting your biddy moriarty duels, gobble gabble, over me till you spit stout, you understand, after soused mackerel, sniffling clambake to hering and impudent barney, braggart of blarney, nor you ugly lemoncholic gobs o'er the hobs in a sewing circle, stopping oddments in maids' costumes at sweeping reductions, wearing out your ohs by sitting around your ahs, making areek- eransy round where I last put it, with the painters in too, curse luck, with your rags up, exciting your mucuses, turning breakfarts into lost soupirs and salon thay nor you flabbies on your groaning chairs over Bollivar's troubles of a bluemoondag, steamin your damp ossicles, praying Holy Prohibition and Jaun Dyspeptist while Ole Clo goes through the wood with Shep togather, touting in the chesnut burrs for Goodboy Sommers and Mistral Blownowse hugs his kindlings when voiceyversy it's my gala bene fit, robbing leaves out of my taletold book. May my tunc fester if ever I see such a miry lot of maggalenes! Once upon a drunk and a fairly good drunk it was and the rest of your blatherumskite! Just a plain shays by the fire for absent- er Sh the Po and I'll make ye all as eastern hummingsphere of myself the moment that you name the way. Look in the slag scuttle and you'll see me sailspread over the singing, and what do ye want trippings for when you've Paris inspire your hat? Sussumcordials all round, let ye alloyiss and ominies, while I stray and let ye not be getting grief out of it, though blighted troth be all bereft, on my poor headsake, even should we forfeit our life. Lo, improving ages wait ye! In the orchard of the bones. Some time very presently now when yon clouds are dissipated after their forty years shower, the odds are, we shall all be hooked and happy, communionistically, among the fieldnights eliceam, élite of the elect, in the land of lost of time. Johannisburg's a re- velation! Deck the diamants that never die! So cut out the lone- some stuff! Drink it up, ladies, please, as smart as you can lower it! Out with lent! Clap hands postilium! Fastintide is by. Your
