Finnegans Wake: Page 408

Part:3 Episode:12 Page:408

most earning, his board in the swealth of his fate as, having
moistened his manducators upon the quiet and scooping molars
and grinders clean with his two fore fingers, he sank his hunk,
dowanouet to resk at once, exhaust as winded hare, utterly spent,
it was all he could do (disgusted with himself that the combined
weight of his tons of iosals was a hundred men's massed too much
for him), upon the native heath he loved covered kneehigh with
virgin bush, for who who e'er trod sod of Erin could ever sleep
off the turf! Well, I'm liberally dished seeing myself in this trim!
How all too unwordy am I, a mere mailman of peace, a poor loust
hastehater of the first degree, the principot of Candia, no legs and
a title, for such eminence, or unpro promenade rather, to be much
more exact, as to be the bearer extraordinary of these postoomany
missive on his majesty's service while me and yous and them we're
extending us after the pattern of reposiveness! Weh is me, yeh is
ye! I, the mightif beam maircanny, which bit his mirth too early
or met his birth too late! It should of been my other with his
leickname for he's the head and I'm an everdevoting fiend of his.
I can seeze tomirror in tosdays of yer when we lofobsed os so ker.
Those sembal simon pumpkel pieman yers! We shared the twin
chamber and we winked on the one wench and what Sim sobs
todie I'll reeve tomorry, for 'twill be, I have hopes of, Sam
Dizzier's feedst. Tune in, tune on, old Tighe, high, high, high,
I'm thine owelglass. Be old! He looks rather thin, imitating me.
I'm very fond of that other of mine. Fish hands Macsorley!
Elien! Obsequies! Bonzeye! Isaac Egari's Ass! We're the
musichall pair that won the swimmyease bladdhers at the Guinness
gala in Badeniveagh. I ought not to laugh with him on this stage.
But he' such a game loser! I lift my disk to him. Brass and reeds,
brace and ready! How is your napper, Handy, and hownow does
she stand? First he was living to feel what the eldest daughter she was
panseying and last he was dying to know what old Madre Patriack
does be up to. Take this John's Lane in your toastingfourch.
Shaunti and shaunti and shaunti again! And twelve coolinder moons!
I am no helotwashipper but I revere her! For my own coant! She
has studied ! Piscisvendolor ! You're grace ! Futs dronk of

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