The Restored Finnegans Wake

by James Joyce

  And, with that crickcrackcruck of his threelungged squool from which grief had usupped every smile, big hottempered husky fusky krenfy strenfy pugiliser such as he was, he virtually broke down on the mooherhead, getting quite jerry over her, overpowered by himself with the love of the tearsilver that he twined through her hair, for, sure, he was the soft semplgawn slob of the world with a heart like Montgomery’s in his showchest and harvey loads of feeling in him and as innocent and undesignful as the freshfallen calef. Still, grossly unselfish in sickself, he dished allarmes away and laughed it off with a wipe at his pudgies and a gulp apologetic, healing his tare be the smeyle of his oye, oogling aroond. Him belly no belong sollow mole pigeon. Ally bully. Fu Li’s gulpa. Mind you, now, that he was in the dumpest of earnest orthough him jawr war hoo hleepy hor halk urthing hurther. Moe. Like that only he stopped short and, in looking up up up-from his tideshackled wrists through the ghost of an ocean upon the wieds of pansiful heathvens of joepeter’s gaseytotum as they are telling not but were and will be, all told, scruting foreback into the fargoneahead to feel out what age in years tropical, ecclesiastic, civil or sidereal he might find by the sirious pointstand of Charley’s Wain (what betune the spheres sledding along the lacteal and the mansions of the blest turning on old times), as erewhile had he craved of thus, the dreamskhwindel necklassoed him, his thumbs fell into his fists and, lusosing the harmonical balance of his ballbearing extremities, by the holy kettle, like a flask of lightning over he careened (O the sons of the fathers!) by the mightyfine weight of his barrel (all that prevented the happening of, who, if not the asterisks betwink themselves, shall ever?) and, as the wisest postlude he could playact, collapsed in ensemble and rolled buoyantly backwards in less than a twinkling via Rattigan’s corner out of further earshot with his highly curious mode of slipashod motion, surefoot, sorefoot, slickfoot, slackfoot, linkman laizurely, lampman loungey, and by Killesther’s lapes and falls, with corks and staves and treeleaves and more bubbles to his keelrow, a fairish and easy way enough as the town cow cries behind the times in the direction of MacAuliffe’s, the crucethouse, Open the Door Softly, down in the valley, before he was really uprighted ere in a dip of the downs (uila!) he spoorlessly disappaled and vanesshed, like a popo down a papa, from circular circulatio. Ah, mean!

  Gaogaogaone! Tapaa!

  And the stellas were shinings. And the earthnight strewed aromatose. His pibrook creppt mong the donkness. A reek was waft on the luftstream. He was ours, all fragrance. And we were his for a lifetime. O dulcid dreamings, languidous! Taboccoo!

  It was sharming! But scharmeng!

  And the lamp went out as it couldn’t glow on burning, yep, the lmp wnt out for it couldn’t stay alight.

  Well (how dire do we thee hours when thylike fades!), all’s dall and youllow and it is to bedowern that thou art passing hence, mine bruder, able Shaun, with a twhisting of the robe, ere the morning of light calms our hardest throes, from carnal relations and familiar faces, beyond cods’ cradle and porpoise plain, to the inds of Tuskland where the Oliphants scrum from, till the ousts of Amiracles where the toll stories grow proudest, more is the pity, but for all your deeds of goodness you were soo ooft and forever doing, manomano and myriamilia even to mulimuli, as our humbler classes, whose virtue is humility, can tell, it is hardly we in the country of the old, Sean Moy, can part you, for, oleypoe, you were the walking saint, you were, tootoo too stayer, the graced of gods and pittites and the salus of the wake. Countenance whose disparition afflictedly fond Fuinn feels. Winner of the gamings, primed at the studience, propredicted from the storybouts, the choice of ages wise! Spickspookspokesman of our specturesque silentiousness! Musha, beminded of us out there in Cockpit, poor twelve o’clock scholars, sometime or other anywhen you think the time. Wisha, becoming back to us way home in Biddyhouse one way or the other anywhere, we miss your smile. Palmwine breadfruit sweetmeat milksoup! Suasusupo! However! Our people here in Samoanesia will not be after forgetting you and the elders luking and marking the jornies, chalking up drizzle in drizzle out, on the four bare mats. How you would be thinking in your thoughts how the deepings did it all begin and how you would be scrimmaging through your scruples to collar a hold of an imperfection being committled. Sireland calls you. Mery Loye is saling moonlike. And Slyly Mamourneen is ladymaid at Gladshouse Lodge. Turn your coat, strong character, and tarry among us down the vale, yougander, only once more! And may the moss of prosperousness gather you rolling home! May foggy dews bediamondise your hooprings! May the fireplug of filiality reinsure your bunghole! May the barleywind behind glow luck to your bathershins! ’Tis well we know you were loth to leave us, winding your hobbledehorn, right royal post, but, aruah sure, pulse of our slumber, dreambookpoge, by the grace of Votre Dame, when the natural mourning of your nocturne blankmerges into the national morning of golden sunup and Don Leary gets his own back from old grog Georges Quartas as that goodship the Jonnyjoys takes the wind from waterloogged Erin’s king, you will skiff across the Moylendsea and round up in your own escapology some canonisator’s day or other, sack on back, alack, digging snow (not so?) like the good man you are, with your picture pockets turned knockside out in the rake of the rain for fresh remittances, and from that till this in any case, timus tenant, may the tussocks grow quickly under your trampthickets and the daisies trip lightly over your battercops.

  Jaunty Jaun, as I was shortly before that made aware, next halted to fetch a breath, the first cothurminous leg of his nightstride being pulled through, and to loosen (let God’s son now be looking down on to the poor preambler!) both of his bruised brogues, that were plainly made a good bit before his hosen were, at the weir by Lazar’s Walk (for far and wide, as large as he was lively, was he noted for his humane treatment of any kind of abused footgear), a matter of maybe nine score or so barrelhours’ distance off, as truly he merited to do. He was there, you could planimetrically see, when I took a closer look at him, that was to say, amply (gracious helpings, at this rate of growing our cotted child of yestereve will soon fill space and burst in systems, so speeds the instant!) altered for the brighter though still the graven image of his squarer self as he was used to be, perspiring but happy notwithstanding his foot was still asleep on him, the way he thought, by the holy januarious, he had a bullock’s hoof in his buskin, with his halluxes so splendid, through Ireland untranscended, bigmouthed poesther, propped up, restant, against a butterblond warden of the peace, one comestabulish Sigurdsen (and where a better than such exsearfaceman to rest from roving the laddyown he bootblacked?), who, buried upright like the Osbornes, kozydozy, had tumbled slumbersomely on sleep at night duty behind the curing station, equilebriated amid the embracings of a monopolised bottle.

  Now, there were as many as twentynine hedgedaughters out of Benent Saint Berched’s national nightschool (for they seemed to remember how it was still a once-upon-a-four year) learning their antemeridian lesson of life, under its tree, against its warning, beseated as they were upon the brinkspondy, attracted to the rarerust sight of the first human yellowstone landmark (the bear, the boer, the king of all boors, Sir Humphrey his knave we met on the moors!) while they paddled away, keeping time magnetically with their eight and fifty pedalettes, playing foolyfool jouay allo misto posto, O so Jaonickally, all barely in their typtap teens, describing a charming dactylogram of nocturnes though repelled by the snores of the log who looked stuck to the sod as ever and oft, when liquefied (vil!), he murmoaned abasourdly in his Dutchener’s native, visibly unmoved, over his treasure trove for the crown: Dotter dead bedstead mean diggy smuggy flasky!

  Jaun (after he had in the first place doffed a hat with a reinforced crown and bowed to all the others in that chorus of praise of goodwill girls on their best beehiviour who all they were girls all rushing sowarmly for the post as buzzy as sie could bie to read his kisshands, kittering all about, rushing and making a tremendous girlsfuss over him pellmale, their jeune premier, and his rosyposy smile, mussing his frizzy hair and the gollywog curls of hi
m, all but that one, Findrina’s fairest, done in loveletters like a trayful of cloudberry tartlets (ain’t they fine, mighty, mighty fine and honoured?) and smilingly smelling, pair and pair about, broad by bread and slender to slimmer, the nice perfumios that came cunvy apeeling off him (nice!) which was angelic simply, savouring of wild thyme and parsley jumbled with breadcrumbs (O nice!) asinging to his stamen and apetting of his pistil and feeling his full fat pouch for him so tactily and jingaling his jellybags, for though he looked a young chapplie of sixtine they could frole by his manhood that he was just the killingest ladykiller all by kindness, asking kindlily (hillo, missies!) after their howareyous at all with those of their dollybegs, and where’s Agatha’s lamb? and how are Bernadetta’s columbillas? and Julienna’s tubberbunnies? and Eulalina’s tuggerfunnies?) next went on (finefeelingfit!) to drop a few stray remarks anent their personal appearances and the contrary tastes displayed in their tight kittycasques and their smart frickyfrockies, asking coy one after sloy one had she read Irish legginds and gently reproving one that the ham of her hom could be seen below her hem and whispering another aside, as lavariant, that the hook of her hum was open a bittock at her back, to have a side-eye to that, hom, and all of course just to fill up a form out of pure human kindness and in a sprite of fun, for Jaun, by the way, was by way of becoming (I think, I hope he was) the most purely human being that ever was called man, loving all up and down the whole creation from Sampson’s tyke to Jones’s sprat and from the king of all Wrenns down to infewseries.

  Jaun, after those few prelimbs, made out through his eroscope the apparition of his fond sister Izzy, for he knowed his love by her waves of splabashing and she showed him proof by her way of blubushing, nor could he forget her so tarnelly easy as all that since he was brotherbesides her benedict godfather and heaven knows he thought the world and his life of her sweet heart could buy (brao!), poor, good, true, Jaun!

  — Sister dearest, Jaun delivered himself with express cordiality, marked by clearance of diction and general delivery, as he began to take leave of his scholastica at once so as to gain time with deep affection, we honestly believe you soeurly will miss us the moment we exit yet we feel as a martyr to the dischurch of all duty that it is about time, by Great Harry, we would shove off to stray on our long last journey and not be the load on ye. This is the gross proceeds of your teachings in which we were raised, you, Sis, that used to write to us the exceeding nice letters for presentation and would be telling us anun (full well do we wont to recall to mind) thy oldworld tales of homespinning and derringdo and dieobscure and daddyho, those tales which reliterately whisked oft our heart so narrated by thou, gesweest, to perfection, our pet pupil of the whole rhythmetic class and the mainsay of our erigenal house, the time we younkers twain were fairly tossing ourselves (O Phoebus! O Pollux!) in bed, having been laid up with Castor’s oil on the Parrish’s syrup (the night we well remember) for to share our hard suite of affections with thee.

  I rise, O fair assemblage! Andcommincio. Now then, after this introit of exordium, my galaxy girls, quiproquo of directions to henservants I was asking his advice on the strict T.T. from Father Mike, P.P., my orational dominican and confessor doctor C.C.D.D. (buy the birds, as he yerked me under the ribs he was saying sermon in an offrand way and confidences petween pees like ourselves in so and so many nuncupiscent words about how he had just been confarreating teat-à-teat with two viragos intactas and what an awful life he led, poorish priced, uttering mass for a coppall of geldings and what a lawful day it was, there and then, for a consommation with an effusion and how, by all the manny larries ate pignatties, how, hell in tummies, he’d marry me flying any old buckling time as quick as he’d look at me), and I am giving youth now again in words of style, byaway of offertory, his and mikeadvice, an it place the person, as, ere he retook him to his cure, those verbs he said to me. From above. The most eminent bishop titular of Dubloonik to all his purtybusses in Dellabelliney. Come all ye dimsel damsels, siddle down and lissle all! Follow me close! Keep me in view! Understeady me saries! Which is to all practising massoeuses from a preaching freer and be a gentleman without a duster before a parlourmade without a spitch. Where the lisieuse are we and what’s the first sing to be sung? Is it rubrics, mandarimus, pasqualines or verdidads is in it or the bruiselivid indecores of estreme voyoulence and, for the lover of lithurgy, bekant or besant, where’s the fate’s to be wished for? Several sindays after whatsintime. I’ll sack that sick server the minute I bless him. That’s the mokst I can do for his grapce. Economy of movement, axe why said. I’ve a hopesome’s choice if I chouse of all the sinkts in the colander. From the common for Ignitious Purpalume to the proper of Francisco Ultramare, last of scorchers, third of snows, in terrorgammons howdydos. Here she’s is a belle, that’s wares in heaven, virginwhite, Undetrigesima, vikissy manonna. Doremous!

  Now. During our brief apsence from this furtive feugtig season adhere to as many as probable of the ten commandments touching purgations and indulgences and in the long run they will prove for your better guidance along your path of right of way. The same or similar to be kindly observed within the affianced dietcess of Gay O’Toole and Gloamy Gwenn du Lake (Danish spoken!) from Manducare Monday up till farrier’s siesta in china dominos. Words taken in triumph, my sweet assistance, from the sufferant pen of our jocosus inkerman militant of the reed behind the ear.

  Never miss your lostsomewhere mass for the couple in Myles you butrose to brideworship. Never hate mere pork which is bad for your knife of a good friday. Never let a hog of the howth trample underfoot your linen of Killiney. Never play lady’s game for the Lord’s stake. Never lose your heart away till you win his diamond back. Make a strong point of never kicking up your rumpus over the scroll end of sofas in the Dar Bey Coll Cafeteria by tootling risky apropos songs at commercial travellers’ smokers for their columbian nights entertainments the like of White limbs they never stop teasing or Minxy was a Manxmaid when Murry wore a Man. And, by the bun, is it you goes bisbuiting His Esaus and Cos and then throws them bag in the box? Why, the tin’s nearly empty. First, thou shalt not smile. Twice, thou shalt not love. Lust, thou shalt not commix idolatry. Hip confiners help compunction. Never park your brief stays in the men’s convenience. Never clean your buttoncups with your dirty pair of sassers. Never ask his first person where’s your quickest cut to our last place. Never let the promising hand usemake free of your oncemaid sacral. The soft side of the axe! A coil of cord, a colleen coy, a blush on a bush turned first man’s laughter into wailful moither. O foolish cuppled! Ah, dice’s error! Never dip in the ern while you’ve browsers on your suite. Never slip the silver key through your gate of golden age. Collide with man, collude with money. Ere you sail foreget my prize. When you truss be circumspicious and all ways look before you leak, dears. Never christen medlard apples till a swithin is in sight. Wet your thistle where a weed is and you’ll rue it, despyneedies. Especially beware, please, of being at a party to any demoralising home life. That saps a chap. Keep cool faith in the firm, have warm hoep in the house and begin frem athome to be chary of charity. Where it is nobler in the main to supper than the boys and errors of outrager’s virtue. Give back those stolen kisses; restaure those allcotten glooves. Recollect the yella perals that all too often beset green gerils, Rhidarhoda and Daradora, once they get hobbyhorsical, playing breeches parts for Bessy Sudlow in fleshcoloured pantos instead of earthing down in the coalhole trying to boil the big Gunne’s dinner. Leg-before-Wicked lags-behind-Wall where here Mr Whicker whacked a great fall. Femorafamilla feeled it a candleliked but Hayes, Conyngham and Erobinson sware it’s an egg. Forglim mick aye! Stay, forestand and tillgive it! Remember the biter’s bitters I shed the vigil I buried our Harlotte Quai from poor Mrs Mangain’s of Britain Court on the feast of Marie Maudlin. Ah, who would wipe her weeper dry and lead her to the haltar? Sold in her heyday, laid in the straw, bought for one puny petunia. Moral: if you can’t point a lily get to henna out of here! Put your swell foot foremost on f
oulardy pneumonia shertwaists, irriconcilible with true fiminin risirvition, and ribbons of lace, limenick’s disgrace. Sure, what is it on the whole only holes tied together and the merest transparent washingtones to make Languid Lola’s lingery longer? Scenta Clauthes stiffstuffs your hose and heartsies full of temptiness. Vanity flee and Verity fear! Diobell! Whalebones and buskbutts may hurt you (thwackaway thwuck!) but never lay bare your breast secret (dickette’s place!) to joy a Jonas in the Dolphin’s Barncar with your meetual fan, Doveyed Covetfilles, comepulsing paynattention spasms between the averthisment for Ulikah’s wine and a pair of pulldoons of the old cupiosity shape. There you’ll fix your eyes darkled on the autocart of the bringfast cable but here till you’re martimorphysed please sit still face to face. For if the shorth of your skorth falls down to his knees pray how wrong will he look till he rises? Not before Gravesend is commuted. But now reappears Autist Algy, the pulcherman and would-do performer, oleas Mr Smuth, stated by the vice crusaders to be well known to all the dallytaunties in and near the ciudad of Buellas Arias, taking you to the playguehouse to see the Smirchings of Venus, introducing you, left to right the party comprises, to hogarths and asking with whispered offers in a very low bearded voice, with a nice little tiny manner and in a very nice little tony way, won’t you be an artist’s moral and pose in your nudies as a local esthetic before voluble old masters like Bottisilly and Titteretto and Vergognese and Coraggio, with their extrahand Mazzaccio, plus the usual bilker’s dozen of dowdycameramen. And the volses of lewd Buylan, for innocence! And the phyllisophies of Bussup Bulkeley. O, the frecklessness of the giddies nouveau tays! There’s many’s the icepolled globetapper is haunted by the hottest spot under his equator like Ramrod, the meaty hunter, always jaeger for a thrust. The back beautiful, the undraped divine! And Suzy’s Moedl’s with their Blue Danuboyes! All blah! Viper’s vapid vilest! Put off the old man at the very font and get right on with the nutty sparker round the back. Slip your oval out of touch and let the paravis be your goal. Up leather, Prunella, convert your try! Stick wicks in your earshells when you hear the prompter’s voice. Look on a boa in his beauty and you’ll nevermore wear your strawberry leaves. Rely on the relic. What bondman ever you bind on earth I’ll be bound ’twas combined in hemel. Keep airly hores and the worm is yores. Dress the pussy for her nighty and follow her piggytails up their way to Winkyland. See little poupeep, she’s firsht ashleep. After having sat your poetries and you know what happens when chine throws over jupan. Go to doss with the poulterer, you understand, and shake up with the milchmand. The Sully van vultures are on the prowl. And the hailies fingring maries. Tobacco’s tabu and toboggan’s a backseat. Secret satieties and onanymous letters make the great unwatched as bad as their betters. Don’t on any account acquire a paunchon for that alltoocommon fagbutt habit of frequenting and chumming together with the braces of couples in Mr Tunnelly’s hallways (smash it), wriggling with lowcusses and cockchafers and vamps and rodants, in the end to commit acts of interstipital indecency as between twineties and tapegarters, fingerpats on fondlepets, under the couvrefeu act. It’s the thin end, wedge your steps! Your highpowered hefty hoyden thinks nothing of vamping through a whole suite of smokeless husbands. Three minutes, I’m counting you! Woooooon! No triching now! Give me that when I tell you! Ragazza ladra! And is that any place to be smuggling his madam’s apples up? Deceitful jade. Gee wedge! Begor, I like the way they’re half cooked. Hold, flay, grill, fire that laney feeling for kosenkissing dysgenically within the proscribed limits like Population Peg on a hint or twin clandestinely does be doing to Temptation Tom. Atkings questions in barely and snakking svarewords like a nursemagd. While there’s men-a’-war on the say there’ll be loves-o’-women on the do. Love through the usual channels, cisternbrothelly, when properly disinfected and taken neat in the generable way upon retiring to roost in the company of a husband-in-law or other respectable relative of an apposite sex, not love that leads by the nose as I foresmellt but canalised love, you understand, does a felon good, suspiciously if he has a slugger’s liver. But I cannot belabour the point too ardently (and after the lessions of experience I speak from inspiration) that fetid spirits is the thief of prurities, so none of your twenty rod cherrywhisks, me daughter, at the Cat and Coney or the Spotted Dog. When the night’s in May and the moon shines might. And at 2 bis Lot’s Road. When parties get tight for each other they lose all respect together. By the stench of her fizzle and the glib of her gab know the drunken draggletail Dublin drab. You’ll pay for each bally sorraday night every billing sumday morning. We won’t meeth in Navan till you try to give the Kellsfireclub the goby. Hill or hollow, Hull or Hague! And beware how you dare of wet cocktails in Kildare or the same may see your wedding driving home from your wake. Mades of ashens when you flirt spoil the lad but spare his shirt! Lay your lilylike long his shoulder but buck back if he butts bolder and just hep your homely hop and heed no horning. But if you’ve got some brainy notion to raise cancan and rouse commotion I’ll be apt to flail that tail for you till it’s borning. Let the lore you ladleliked at the lyc girde your gastricks in the gym. Nor must you omit to screw the lid firmly on that jazz jiggery, kick starts, bumping races on the flat and point to coint over obstacles. Ridewheeling that acclivisciously up windy Rutland Rise and insighting rebellious northers in the saunter of the city of Dunlob. Then breretonbiking on the free with your airs of gobe-dee and your heels upon the handlebars. Berrboell brazenness! No, before your corselage rib is decartilaged, that is to mean, if you have visceral ptosis, my point is, making allowances for the facts of your weak abdominal wall and your liver asprawl, vinvin, vinvin, or should you feel, in shorts, as though you needed healthy physicking exorcise to flush your kidneys, you understand, and move that twelfinger bowel and threadworm inhibitating it, lassy, and perspire freely, why, lict your lector in the lobby and out you go by the ostiary on to the dirt track and skip! Be a sportive. Deal with Nature, the great greengrocer, and pay regular by the monthlies. Your Punt’s Perfume’s only in the hatpinny shop beside the reek of the rawney. It’s more important than air—I mean than eats—air (oop, I never open momouth but I pack mefood in it) and promotes that natural emotion. Stamp out bad eggs. Why so many puddings prove disappointing, as Dietician says in Creature Comforts Causeries, and why so much soup is so muck slop. If we could fatten on the elizabeetons we wouldn’t have teeth like the hippopotamians. However. Likewise if I were in your unvelope shirt I’d keep my weathereye well cocked open for your furnished lodgers paying for their feed on tally with company and piano tunes. Only stuprifying yourself! The too friendly friend sort, Mazourikawitch or some other sukinsin of a vitch, who he’s kommen from olt Pannonia on this porpoise whom sue stooderin about the maul and femurl artickles and who mix himself so at home mid the musik and spanks the ivory so lovely, Mistro Melosiosus MacShine MacShane, may soon prove your undoing and bane through the succeeding years of rain should you, whilst Jaun is from home, get used to basking in his loverslowlap, inordinately clad, moustacheteasing, when closeheaded together behind locked doors, kissing steadily (malbongusta, it’s not the thing, you know!) with the calfloving selfseeker, under the influence of woman, inching up to you, disarranging your modesties and fumbling with his forte paws in your bodice after your billydoos twy as a first go-off (take care, would you stray and split on me!) and going on doing his idiot every time you gave him his chance to get thick and play pigglywiggly, making much of you, bilgetalking like a ditherer, gougouzoug, about your glad neck and the round globe and the white milk and the red raspberries (O horrifier!) and prying down furthermore to chance his lucky arm with his pregnant questions up to our past lives. What has that caught to sing with him? The next fling you’ll be squitting on the Tubber Nakel, pouring pitchers to the well for old Gloatsdane’s glorification and the postequities of the Black Watch, peeping private from the Bush and Rangers. And our local busybody, talker-go-bragk? Worse again! Off of that praying fan on to them priars! It would be a whorable state of affairs al
together for the red columnists of presswritten epics, Peter Paragraph and Paulus Puff (I’m keepsoaking them to cover my concerts), to get ahold of for their balloons and shoot you private by surprise, considering the marriage slump that’s on this oil age and pulexes three shillings a pint and wives at six and seven when domestic calamities belame par and newlaids bellow mar for the twenty two toosent time thwealthy took thousands in the slack march of civilisation, were you, becoming guilty of unleckylike intoxication, to have and to hold, to pig and to pay, direct connection, qua intervener, with a prominent married member of the vicereeking squad and, in consequence of the hereinunder subpenas, be flummoxed to the second degree by becoming a detestificated companykeeper on the dammymonde of Lucalamplight. Anything but that, for the fear and love of gold! Once and for all, I’ll have no college swankies (you see I am well voiced in love’s arsenal and all its overtures from collion boys to colleen bawns, so I have every reason to know that rogues’ gallery of nightbirds and bitchfanciers, lucky duffs and light lindsays, haughty hamiltons and gay gordons, dosed, doctored and otherwise, messing around skirts and what their fickling intentions look like, you make up your mind to that) trespassing on your danger zone in the dancer years. If ever I catch you at it, mind, it’s you that will cocottch it! I’ll tackle you to feel if you have a few devils in you. Holy gun, I’ll give it to you, hot, high and heavy, before you can say sedro! Or may the maledictions of Lousyfear fall like nettlerash on the white friar’s father that converted from moonshine the fostermother of the first nancy-free that ran off after the trumpadour that mangled Moore’s melodies and so upturned the tubshead of the stardaft journalwriter to inspire the prime finisher to fellhim the firtree out of which Cooper Funnymore planed the flat of the beerbarrel on which my grandydad’s lustiest sat his seat of unwisdom with my tante’s petted sister for the cause of his joy! Amine.