“F’r th’ lasht time—do we shing?” asks Muley.
“You do not!” declares Magpie. “I thought you knowed that, Muley.”
“May you resht in peash,” says Muley. “May your anchestors rise up and mock you for bein’ a —— fool. Autographically schpeakin’:
“May your hair wear out
And your nose break off
And your teeth shake loose
From whoopin’ cough.
“Thish is the best wishes of your friend Muley Bowels, E-squire, December twenty-fourth.”
“Tha’s good,” says Dirty. “That’s fine. Roshes are blue, vi’lets are pink—uh—no, that ain’t it. Vi’lets are red and roshes are blue—Haw! Haw! Haw! No knife can cut our love up. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Why don’t you say something, Ike?” asks Magpie. “You’re just as drunk as they are.”