14SEA

There was never a warlord in Great Erinnes and Brettland, no, nor in all Pick County like you, they say. No, nor a king nor an ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king.

The game old Gunne, they do be saying, (skull!) that was a planter for you, a spicer of them all. Begog but he was, the G.O.G! He’s duddandgunne now and we’re apter finding the sores of his sedeq but peace to his great limbs, the buddhoch, with the last league long rest of him, while the millioncandled eye of Tuskar sweeps the Moylean Main!

And admiring to our supershillelagh where the palmsweat on high is the mark of your monument. All the toethpicks ever Eirenesians chewed on are chips chepped from that battery block. If you were bowed and soild and letdown itslef from the oner of the load it was that paddyplanters might pack up plenty and when you were undone in every point fore the laps of goddesses you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy.

Your fame is spreading like Basilico’s ointment since the Fintan Lalors piped you overborder and there’s whole households beyond the Bothnians and they calling names after you. The menhere’s always talking of you sitting around on the pig’s cheeks under the sacred rooftree, over the bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow, with a pledge till the drengs, in the Salmon House.

Mieliodories, the Doctor Faherty, the madison man, taught to goodne you. Poppypap’s a passport out. And honey is the holiest thing ever was, hive, comb and earwax, the food for glory, (mind you keep the pot or your nectar cup may yield too light!) and some goat’s milk, sir like the maid used to bring you.

And we’ll be coming here, the ombre players, to rake your gravel and bringing you presents, won’t we, fenians? And it isn’t our spittle we’ll stint you of, is it, druids? Not shabbty little imagettes, pennydirts and dodgemyeyes you by in the soottee stores. But offerings of the field.

Meeting some sick old bankrupt or the Cottericks’ donkey with his shoe hanging, clankatachankata, or a slut snoring with an impure infant on a bench.

Now be aisy, Good Mr Finnimore, sir. And take your laysure like a god on pension and don’t be walking abroad. Sure you’d only lose yourself in Healiopolis now the way your roads in Kapelavaster are that winding there after the calvary, the North Kapelavaster are that winding there after the calvary, the North Umbrian and the Fivs Barrow and Waddlings Raid and the Bower Moore and wet your feet maybe with the foggy dew’s abroad.

Anam muck an dhoul! Did ye drink me doornail?

He dug in and dug out by the skill of his tilth for himself and all belonging to him and he sweated his crew beneath his auspice for the living and he urned his dread, that dragon volant, and he made louse for us and delivered us to boll weevils amain, that mighty liberator, Unfru-Chikda-Uru-Wukru and begad he did, our ancestor most worshipful, till he thought of a better one in bis windower’s house with that blushmantle upon him from earsend to earsend.