| of sweetempered gunpowdered didst unto dudst but it never | 1 |
| stphruck your mudhead's obtundity (O hell, here comes our | 2 |
| funeral! O pest, I'll miss the post!) that the more carrots you | 3 |
| chop, the more turnips you slit, the more murphies you peel, the | 4 |
| more onions you cry over, the more bullbeef you butch, the | 5 |
| more mutton you crackerhack, the more potherbs you pound, | 6 |
| the fiercer the fire and the longer your spoon and the harder you | 7 |
| gruel with more grease to your elbow the merrier fumes your | 8 |
| new Irish stew. | 9 |
| O, by the way, yes,another thing occurs to me. You let me tell | 10 |
| you, with the utmost politeness, were very ordinarily designed, | 11 |
| your birthwrong was, to fall in with Plan, as our nationals | 12 |
| should, as all nationists must, and do a certain office (what, I will | 13 |
| not tell you) in a certain holy office (nor will I say where) during | 14 |
| certain agonising office hours (a clerical party all to yourself) from | 15 |
| such a year to such an hour on such and such a date at so and | 16 |
| so much a week pro anno (Guinness's, may I remind, were just | 17 |
| agulp for you, failing in which you might have taken the scales off | 18 |
| boilers like any boskop of Yorek) and do your little thruppenny | 19 |
| bit and thus earn from the nation true thanks, right here in our | 20 |
| place of burden, your bourne of travail and ville of tares, where | 21 |
| after a divine's prodigence you drew the first watergasp in your | 22 |
| life, from the crib where you once was bit to the crypt you'll | 23 |
| be twice as shy of, same as we, long of us, alone with the colt | 24 |
| in the curner, where you were as popular as an armenial with | 25 |
| the faithful, and you set fire to my tailcoat when I hold the | 26 |
| paraffin smoker under yours (I hope that chimney's clear) but, | 27 |
| slackly shirking both your bullet and your billet, you beat it | 28 |
| backwards like Boulanger from Galway (but he combed the grass | 29 |
| against his stride) to sing us a song of alibi, (the cuthone call over | 30 |
| the greybounding slowrolling amplyheaving metamorphoseous | 31 |
| that oozy rocks parapangle their preposters with) nomad, mooner | 32 |
| by lamplight, antinos, shemming amid everyone's repressed | 33 |
| laughter to conceal your scatchophily by mating, like a thorough- | 34 |
| paste prosodite, masculine monosyllables of the same numerical | 35 |
| mus, an Irish emigrant the wrong way out, sitting on your crooked | 36 |