I'll Tickle His Catastrophe.

Evening Had Fallen. A Rim Of The Young Moon Cleft The Pale Waste Of Sky Line, The Rim Of A Silver Hoop Embedded In Grey Sand: And The Tide Was Flowing In Fast To The Land With A Low Whisper Of Her Waves, Islanding A Few Last Figures In Distant Pools.

I Don't Mean To Presume To Dictate To You In The Slightest Degree But Why Did You Leave Your Father's House? Mto Seek Misfortune, Was Stephen's Answer.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

And In Spite Of Everything, Ireland Remains The Brain Of The Kingdom. The English, Judiciously Practical And Ponderous, Furnish The Over-stuffed Stomach Of Humanity With A Perfect Gadget--the Water Closet. The Irish, Condemned To Express Themselves In A Language Not Their Own, Have Stamped On It The Mark Of Their Own Genius And Compete For Glory With The Civilized Nations. This Is Then Called English Literature.

Once Upon A Time And A Very Good Time It Was There Was A Moocow Coming Down Along The Road And This Moocow That Was Coming Down Along The Road Met A Nicens Little Boy Named Baby Tuckoo