That i will laff every good chance i kan git, whether it makes me gro phatt or not.
Finally, i will sarch for things that are little, for things that are lonesum, avoiding all torch lite proseshuns, bands ov brass music, Wimmins’ rights convenshuns and grass widders generally.
MY FUST GONG.
I never kan eradicate holy from mi memry the sound ov the first gong I ever herd—i was setting on the frunt stupe ov a tavern in the sitty ov Bufferlo, pensively a smokin.
The sun was a goin tu bed, and the heavens fur and nere was blushing at the purformanse.
The Eri kanall with its goldin waters was on its windin wa tu albany, and i was perusin the line botes, a flotin by, and thinkin ov Italy, (whare i used tu live,) and her gondolers, and gallus wimmin.
Mi entire sole was, as it ware in a swet, i wanted tu climb, i felt grate, i aktually grew.
Thar ar things in this life tu big tu be trifled with, thar ar times when a man brakes luce from hisself, when he sees speerits, when he kan almost tuch the moon, and feels as tho he kud fill both hands with the stars ov heavin and almost sware he was a bank president.
Thats what ailed me.
But the korse ov tru luv never did run smoove, (this iz Shakesperes opinion too, i and he often think thru one quill) just az i was doing my best, ... dummer, dummer, spat, bang, beller, crash, roar, ram, dummer, dummer, whang, rip, rare rally, dummer dummer, dummer dum, ... with one tremenjis jump, i struck the senter ov the side walk, with anuther i kleared the gutter and with anuther, i stud in the middle ov the strets snorting like a injin poney, at a band ov musik; i gazed in wilde dispare at the tavern stand, mi harte swelled up as big as an out door oven, mi teeth were as luce as a string ov prairy beads.