And Joyce Wrote:

In the virgin womb of the imagination the word was made flesh.

On a cloth untrue
With a twisted cue
And elliptical billiard balls
Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Contrahit orator, variant in carmine vates.

The scorn and anger in his voice brought Cranly's eyes back from a calm
survey of the walls of the hall.

Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes.
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,

Frowsy girls sat along the curbstones before their baskets.
Their dank hair hung trailed over their brows.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
--Thank you.

Then Nasty Roche had said:

--You are quite welcome, sir.

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