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Updated: August 29, 2024
When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells. White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is.
Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is. VOICES: Police! DISTANT VOICES: Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire! Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns boom. Pandemonium. Troops deploy. Gallop of hoofs. Artillery. Hoarse commands. Bells clang. Backers shout. Drunkards bawl. Whores screech. Foghorns hoot. Cries of valour.
"I would." Quick as flash he clapped hand to pocket, but the pistol caught on the lining, and before he could free it I had covered him with mine, whereat he grew suddenly rigid and still. "Up wi' your fambles!" says I. Obediently he raised his hands and, taking his pistols, I opened the pan of each one and, having blown out the primings, tossed them back.
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