Finnegans Wake - James Joyce [183]
Think some ingain think, as Teakortairer sate over the Galwegian caftan forewhen Orops and Aasas were chooldrengs and micramacrees! A forward movement, Miles na Bogaleen, and despatch!
BUTT (slinking his coatsleeves surdout over his squad mutton shoulder so as to loop more life the jauntlyman as he scents thc anggreget yup behound their whole scoopchina’s desperate noy’s totalage and explaining aposteriorly how awstooloo was valde-sombre belowes hero and he was in a greak esthate phophiar an erixtion on the soseptuple side of him made spoil apriori his popo-porportiums). Yass, zotnyzor, I don’t think I did not, pojr. Never you brother me for I scout it, think you! Ichts nichts on nichts ! Greates Schtschuptar! Me fol the rawlawdy in the schpirrt of a schkrepz. Of all the quirasses and all the qwehrmin in the tra-gedoes of those antiants their grandoper, that soun of a gun— nong, with his sabaothsopolettes, smooking his scandleloose at botthends of him! Foinn duhans! I grandthinked after his obras after another time about the itch in his egondoom he was legging boldylugged from some pulversporochs and lyoking for a stool-eazy for to nemesisplotsch allafranka and for to salubrate himself with an ultradungs heavenly mass at his base by a suprime pomp-ship chorams the perished popes, the reverend and allaverred cromlecks, and when I heard his lewdbrogue reciping his cheap cheateary gospeds to sintry and santry and sentry and suntry I thought file:///E|/Books/Top%20100%20Novels%20list/Finnegans%20Wake/complete.html[9/12/2007 12:21:58 PM]
Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce
he was only haftara having afterhis brokeforths but be the homely Churopodvas I no sooner seen aghist of his frighte-ousness then I was bibbering with vear a few versets off fooling for fjorg for my fifth foot. Of manifest ’tis obedience and the. Flute!
TAFF (though the unglucksarsoon is giming for to git him, jotning in, hoghly ligious, hapagodlap, like a soldierry sap, with a pique at his cue and a tyr in his eye and a bond of his back and a croak in his cry as did jolly well harm lean o’er him) Is not athug who would. Weepon, weeponder, song of sorrowmon ! Which goatheye and sheepskeer they damnty well know. Papaist! Gambanman! Take the cawraidd’s blow! Yia!
Your partridge’s last!
BUTT (giving his scimmianised twinge in acknuckledownedgment of this cumulikick, strafe from the firetrench, studenly drobs led, sa-toniseels ouchyotchy, he changecors induniforms as he is lefting the gat out of the big: his face glows green, his hair greys white, his bleyes bcome broon to suite his cultic twalette). But when I seeing him in his oneship fetch along within hail that tourrible tall with his nitshnykopfgoknob and attempting like a brandylogged rudeman cathargic, lugging up and laiding down his livepelts so cruschinly like Mebbuck at Messar and expousing his old skinful self tailtottom by manurevring in open ordure to renew-murature with the cowruads in their airish pleasantry I thanked he was recovering breadth from some herdsquatters beyond the carcasses and I couldn’t erver nerver to tell a liard story not of I knew the prize if from lead or alimoney. But when I got inoccu-pation of a full new of his old basemiddelism, in ackshan, pagne pogne, by the veereyed lights of the stormtrooping clouds and in the sheenflare of the battleaxes of