Happy First Day of the Writing, 2013

because ye left from me, because ye

laughed on me, because, O me lonly son, ye are forgetting me!,

that our turfbrown mummy is acoming, alpilla, beltilla, ciltilla,

deltilla, running with her tidings, old the news of the great big

world, sonnies had a scrap, woewoewoe! bab's baby walks at

seven months, waywayway ! bride leaves her raid at Punchestime,

stud stoned before a racecourseful, two belles that make the

one appeal, dry yanks will visit old sod, and fourtiered skirts

are up, mesdames, while Parimiknie wears popular short legs,

and twelve hows to mix a tipsy wake, did ye hear, colt Cooney?

did ye ever, filly Fortescue? with a beck, with a spring, all her

rillringlets shaking, rocks drops in her tachie, tramtokens in

her hair, all waived to a point and then all inuendation, little

oldfashioned mummy, little wonderful mummy, ducking under

bridges, bellhopping the weirs, dodging by a bit of bog, rapid-

shooting round the bends, by Tallaght's green hills and the

pools of the phooka and a place they call it Blessington and

slipping sly by Sallynoggin, as happy as the day is wet, bab-

bling, bubbling, chattering to herself, deloothering the fields on

their elbows leaning with the sloothering slide of her, giddy-

gaddy, grannyma, gossipaceous Anna Livia.   --Finnegans Wake