||Well, this is in the spirit of Joyce – though not the letter.
||I'm not sure about that. (sniffing in disdain) Seems like teen-age doggerel to me.
E'm gon'na widdle
& sing ta ya'
& woodle woo wid you,
& let it sway till not one crock-eyed,
pudding-mouthed Belfast mutation who claims to be a poet –
& certainly no foolish lizard skinned grammarian
who dials my ero-injection with the wrong number,
then presses the entry buxom bottom button to maximum throttle,
overloading semantic pissing systems
& memory chips with hackneyed phrases
& electro currents with pléaráca. Hé!
The streets of Dublind argh alive!
& robust canticlers still thrive!
So keep yaer six-pence in yaer pants