He curses the journals.
He has a clob. He curses that clob.
Females with teeth monstrous explain to him the theory of Government.
Men of long hair, the psychologues of the paint-pots, correct him tenderly, but from above.
He has known of the actualities of life—Death, Power, Responsibility, Honour—the Good accomplished, the effacement of Wrong for forty years.
There remains to him a seat in a penny 'bus.
If I do not take him from that.
I rap my heels on the knife-board. I sing "tra la la." I am also well disposed to larmes.
He courbes himself underneath an ulstaire and he damns the fog to eternity.