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Updated: June 27, 2025
Hugh held up a hand commanding silence and rolled out his Irish with gusto: "'Th' longer th' wurruld lasts th' more books does be comin' out. They's a publisher in ivry block an' in thousands iv happy homes some wan is plugging away at th' romantic novel or whalin' out a pome on th' typewriter upstairs. A fam'ly without an author is as contemptible as wan without a priest.
On up the slope they toiled, Winthrop half-forgetting his weariness in thinking of Overland's sprightly experiences with what he termed "the hard ole map this here world." At the summit they paused again to rest. "That was the time," began Overland, "when I writ that there pome called 'Heart Throbs of a Hobo. Listen!"
'I'll threat ye r-right, he says, 'an' at the last line I'll hand ye wan, he says. An' he done it. 'Go in, he says in th' pome, 'go in an' do ye'er worst, he says. 'I make a pass at ye'er stomach, he says, 'I cross ye with me right, he says; 'an, he says at th' last line, he says, 'I soak ye, he says. An' he done it. Th' minyit 'twas over with th' pome 'twas off with Scanlan.
"Pit the wee pome on ma ain wreath," said Tam simply; "'t 'ill be true." On the earth, rain was falling from gray and gloomy clouds. Above those clouds the sun shone down from a blue sky upon a billowing mass that bore a resemblance to the uneven surface of a limitless plain of lather.
Joyce, th' Irish pote that wrote th' pome about th' wa-ars whin me people raysisted Cromwell, while yours was carryin' turf on their backs to make fires for th' crool invader, as Finerty says whin th' sub-scriptions r-runs low.
Now Kipling don't like the czar. Him an' th' czar fell out about something, an' they don't speak. So says Roodyard Kipling to himsilf, he says: 'I'll take a crack at that fellow, he says. 'I'll do him up, he says. An' so he writes a pome to show that th' czar's letter's not on th' square. Kipling's like me, Hinnissy. When I want to say annything lib-lous, I stick it on to me Uncle Mike.
"That's spicy!" the soldier was saying. "Got any more like that?" "I'se got a pome," said Stephen, and drew a piece of paper from his pocket. The valley had broadened. Old Sarum rose before them, ugly and majestic. "Write this yourself?" he asked, chuckling. "Rather," said Stephen, lowering his head and kissing Aeneas between the ears. "But who's old Em'ly?" Rickie winced and frowned.
"You haven't made me a pome for ages!" he cried. "Stop sickling and do it quick!" "It's a grand one," Ken said; "listen to this! "Down in the marshes the sounds begin Of a far-away fairy violin, Faint and reedy and cobweb thin. "Cricket and marsh-frog and brown tree-toad, Sit in the sedgy grass by the road, Each at the door of his own abode;
Whin he opens th' windy, a pome be Paul Deroulede 'll be read to him. This is again th' articles iv war, but th' case is desp'rate. "But I was thinkin', Hinnissy, as I walked down th' Roo Chabrool, how I'd like to see a Chicago polisman come sthrollin' along with his hat on th' back iv his head. I don't love Chicago polismen. They seem to think ivry man's head's as hard as their own.
How's he ever going to learn all the ways of the wicked world? And what ever possessed him to shoot off the Toad Pome to the Maestro?" Ken put the candle on the bureau and undid his necktie. "The blessed little goose!" he added affectionately. There is nothing like interesting work to make time pass incredibly quickly.
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