James Joyce, Finnegans Wake (first published 1939), Faber, 1975
Cobblears, I queek, con naught con all. This is a misbegoblin effart from swive of wive to brickfist type and four pines ninetofive in any buddy’s monure. Where’s your woollen tears, I asp you, to be token by’re lurke-wake root sexhundread pagan laing (in your Fibre papalbag) back to Head Case Engineering, wench we came. (No anchor was the stern reply.)
Finagles Waste, bejamers joist, cannondrum in excresis, insproats a crumplicadent nexicon of dumpstincts withim yr fighful reportwire. He sews seemseeds in the earshell (moultigreyed.) Echo homo, littlesurs! Yet in the upperroof of our puerole Humptyhead, alass, wee stans a ghost. All tug Heather now, Here Comes Excess! (Nutting degrees like digress, my old donski use to shay, God press his iddle-gotten saul.) Well a big fat darty booker it is to be Shaw, and I wouldn’t have the spiers to be waterlogging all the arks and chunderment of openprism reduxdiseased between these greeny backs, so geld me Hobson. Suffixit touché, o gintill redrum, it’s oh, allerline schoolerschrift filluphaben in a therasputin donghell incarnabine. (Otis liftywater I must dyke for it, Father, plash me for I have skimmed. Or shuteye see, blush me, Farber, for I am skint? Hamsters on boastcart, please.) I’ll not abound to say you won’t fine yourself tungling over the odd tibs and bogs that hueffer to the kyries mine pleasurebubble sensehavens of interlarkin dizzypins. Not at Hall, the very tort of it is anaspirin for Deloites of me. Old Joys is a low-undo-himself. (And don’t wee all.) Notwithshandy he guts no eyes with ewers drooling. And why should he, Gott safes the Mark, we cannot all be Hainault Hobcecils scrimbling lists of the midevil sainsburys, we’d all go roust the twins.
But, you interplate (those of you to whom the shap of egremont is heather rising, gold blast you sirs, would you heave the price of a Riles-Royals about yez?) this is no rumtomb teararts billyphant from the Dully Bullygraft! This is Highly Charged Engrishe or I’m a touchmum! How ripe you are, penine interlexapples, I bough to your supearier fudgement. But are you shaun, are you dolgelly convincted we are dwelling with a Wort of Ark and not a Pickforth’s vain of finto seems belonging to a literarty hen’s teeth diva? Hom? You mistumblestand the jeskin? Swerve you right, you anchor! (Part my fringe.)
In the embolism comes it doubt to this: Filigrees Whelk, bejams juice, is a bleeding grant for pores, a hubbyhouse for the aldebarans of the academe, och it’s an obsolete codgeree of your hockmugrandiose christable prankhearse, and all the finn in it is in the parting together (on Joisus’ path) and biggerole in the pollenasonder by ourshelf, misteral stingers that we bee. Sore knackers to Sham and Shawn! Annie Luvya Liverpool a la long term! Abbasso profungus in arsepick! Flaherty-o for the Missus! (The remarque is out of plays, I withdrawl it entimely with sunblest apollogrease.)
Now Boatrace of the Hearties as a Ying Yang, on the upperham, I meal your Potroast of the Alldust as our Yon Mahon, well that’s a dufferin Cathal O’Fish altargodder, Innis?
