Finnegans Wake - James Joyce [249]
Thunderweather, khyber schinker escapa sansa pagar! He’s the spatton spit, so he is, scaly skin and all, with his blackguarded eye and the goatsbeard in his buttinghole of Shemuel Tulliver, me grandsourd, the old cruxader, when he off with his paudeen! That was to let the crowd of the Flu Flux Fans behind him see me proper. Ah, he’s very thoughtful and sympatrico that way is Brother Intelli-gentius, when he’s not absintheminded, with his Paris addresse! He is, really. Holdhard till you’ll ear him clicking his bull’s bones! Some toad klakkin! You’re welcome back, Wilkins, to red berries in the frost! And here’s the butter exchange to pfeife and dramn ye with a bawlful of the Moulsaybaysse and yunker doodler wanked to wall awriting off his phoney. I’m tired hairing of you. Hat yourself! Give us your dyed dextremity here, frother, the Claddagh clasp! I met with dapper dandy and he shocked me big the hamd. Where’s your watch keeper? You’ve seen all sorts in shapes and sizes, marauding about the moppa-mound. How’s the cock and the bullfight? And old Auster and Hungrig? And the Beer and Belly and the Boot and Ball? Not forgetting the oils of greas under that turkey in julep and Father Freeshots Feilbogen in his rockery garden with the costard? And tid you meet with Peadhar the Grab at all? And did you call on Tower Geesyhus?
Was Mona, my own love, no bigger than she should be, making up to you in her bestbehaved manor when you made your breastlaw and made her, tell me? And did you like the landskip from Lambay? I’m better pleased than ten guidneys! You rejoice me! Faith, I’m proud of you, french davit!
You’ve surpassed yourself! Be introduced to yes ! This is me aunt Julia Bride, your honour, dying to have you languish to scan-dal in her bosky old delltangle. You don’t reckoneyes him? He’s Jackot the Horner who boxed in his corner, jilting no fewer than three female bribes. That’s his penals. Shervorum! You haven’t seen her since she stepped into her drawoffs. Come on, spinister, do your stuff! Don’t be shoy, husbandmanvir! Weih, what’s on you, wip? Up the shamewaugh! She has plenty of woom in the smallclothes for the bothsforus, nephews push!
file:///E|/Books/Top%20100%20Novels%20list/Finnegans%20Wake/complete.html[9/12/2007 12:21:58 PM]
Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce
Hatch yourself well! Enjombyourselves thurily! Would you wait biss she buds till you bite on her? Embrace her bashfully by almeans at my frank incensive and tell her in your semiological agglutinative yez, how Idos be asking after her. Let us be holy and evil and let her be peace on the bough. Sure, she fell in line with our tripertight photos as the lyonised mails when we were stablelads together like the corks again brothers, hungry and angry, cavileer grace by roundhered force, or like boyrun to sibster, me and you, shinners true and pinchme, our tertius quiddus, that never talked or listened. Always raving how we had the wrinkles of a snailcharmer and the slits and sniffers of a fellow that fell foul of the county de Loona and the meattrap of the first vegetarian. To be had for the asking. Have a hug! Take her out of poor tuppeny luck before she goes off in pure treple licquidance. I’d give three shillings a pullet to the canon for the conjugation to shadow you kissing her from me leberally all over as if she was a crucifix. It’s good for her bilabials, you understand. There’s no-thing like the mistletouch for finding a queen’s earring false. Chink chink. As the curly bard said after kitchin the womn in his hym to the hum of her garments. You try a little tich to the tissle of his tail. The racist to the