Monday, March 13, 2006

Finnegans Wind

I, but a poor mimic, dedicate this peace to Stan Moore, RIP

-- Its a criime shem, our Shun emits. Yore no is us goot ass a yass. Mimountin loons larch end immoovabull, ond yur edifyce shaks in sham. Thy wryot of nays 'll here r reitchus aye un timble to arth.

-- Shant, his Shim reparts. Hiss win dys up. Hiss hedd hass croktt ass hiss towrinkss pinn. Hee well nutt phall fo hee hatt nott riss. Hat shut! Oun mus born!

Issy, shunned and shemmed, combed her feathers and powndered her meathers and she lupt hem all. For she wood soar what the fusses. But shee cood knowt soar so fasses the wind turnd them ill. The sheman herd and will aveher weep. The shunnon just fload in his muddeyed bink.

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