Assigned reading (almost 2 paragraphs [] plus 130 notes) [secondary] [McH]
'While London's Fast Asleep' ("while Luntum sleeps") is a tearjerker about homelessness and suicide by the author of 'Bicycle Built for Two'. [lyrics] (Spotify has a version by Roy Hudd.)
[♬ Kafoozalum?-nsfw] [lyrics]
FDV: "The best plan is to tour round east & north & review the two mounds. Pardon. Behold this sound of Irish sense. Really? Here English might be seen. Royally? [...] punned to paltry pence. Regally? A silence makes a scene. Behold! Hush! Caution! Echoland!"
[2:48-4:48]
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Gricks may rise and Troysirs fall (there being two sights for ever a picture)
ReplyDeletefor in the byways of high improvidence that's what makes lifework leaving
and the world's a cell for citters to cit in.
Let young wimman run away with the story
and let young min talk smooth behind the butteler's back.
She knows her knight's duty while Luntum sleeps.
Did ye save any tin? says he. Did I what? with a grin says she.
And we all like a marriedann because she is mercenary.
Though the length of the land lies under liquidation (floote!)
and there's nare a hairbrow nor an eyebrusch
on this glaubrous phace of Herrschuft Whatarwelter
she'll loan a vesta and hire some peat and sarch the shores her cockles to heat
and she'll do all a turfwoman can to piff the business on. Paff.
To puff the blaziness on. Poffpoff.
And even if Humpty shell fall frumpty times as awkward again
in the beardsboosoloom of all our grand remonstrancers
there'll be iggs for the brekkers come to mournhim, sunny side up with care.
So true is it that therewhere's a turnover the tay is wet too
and when you think you ketch sight of a hind make sure but you're cocked by a hin.
Then as she is on her behaviourite job of quainance bandy,
fruting for firstlings and taking her tithe,
we may take our review of the two mounds,
to see nothing of the himples here as at elsewhere,
by sixes and sevens,
like so many heegills and collines sitton aroont, scentbreeched and somepotreek,
in their swishawish satins and their taffetaffe tights,
playing Wharton's Folly at a treepurty on the planko in the purk.
Stippup, mickos! Make strake for minnas! By order, Nicholas Proud.
We may see and hear nothing if we choose
of the shortlegged bergins off Corkhill
or the bergamoors of Arbourhill
or the bergagambols of Summerhill
or the bergincellies of Miseryhill
or the countrybossed bergones of Constitutionhill
though every crowd has its several tones
and every trade has its clever mechanics
and each harmonical has a point of its own,
Olaf's on the rise and Ivor's on the lift and Sitric's place's between them.
But all they are all there scraping along
to sneeze out a likelihood that will solve and salve life's robulous rebus,
hopping round his middle like kippers on a griddle, O,
as he lays dormont from the macroborg of Holdhard
to the microbirg of Pied de Poudre.
Behove this sound of Irish sense. Really?
Here English might be seen. Royally?
One sovereign punned to petery pence. Regally?
The silence speaks the scene. Fake!