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Updated: May 8, 2025
They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent. Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices.
See her from here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties. On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. With a cock with a carra. Tap. Tap. Tap. I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing. The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be. Get out before the end.
George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si. The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had cursed three times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy. Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully.
Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's one and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish I hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your nerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules the world. Far. Far. Far. Far. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
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