Having my way with Ulysses

Her maiden name was Jemina Brown and she lived with her mother in Irishtown.

She was weighing out potatoes, throwing coppers in the till, Three lovely children by her side, the image of brother Bill, Her broken vow, I see it now, but not my fifty pounds, The shop was bought and I was sold by naughty Jemina Brown.

8:50 pm
 
‘Twas on the beach under rockets bright
And darling, I saw, your. I saw all in sight.
Will she? Watch! See! She turned round all right.
For this relief much thanks. Lord! Thank you, good night.
 
Felt that ache in the butt of my tongue,
Excitement, projection, o dignity none.
But the ball rolled to her, its chosen one
Each bullet has a billet; crooked shot off a gun. 
 
Might have made a worse fool of myself,
instead of talking of nothing, small as an elf.
Widow Dignam won’t sit long on the shelf,
What happened? Won’t tell you. Find out yourself.
 
What’s next? Mrs. Beaufoy, Purefoy in hospital now,
In labor for days with sweat on her brow. 
My shirt’s wet and unpleasant; below I’m stuck, how?
Well the foreskin’s not back, better detach.  Ow!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Blimey it makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does.

Then they all got blind dhrunk - which complated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this.Seventeen o’clock

On the first day of June it was some people say,
That old Bloom got a check for some work it was pay.
He bought for dear Molly garters violet and fair
But that fat heap he married hrumphed “why just one pair?!”
Well now Bloom he does try, and mistakes will be made,
But do we blame poor old Poldy for plans poorly laid?
My dear Mrs. Marion, ’tis only too true
Your man is in peril, mocked, scorned, and he’s blue!
 
 
You don’t grasp my point, what I’m meaning is thus:
While Molly’s post-coital, Bloom’s making a fuss.
He’s stirring up trouble, poking giants in eyes
Will it end well for Poldy? There’ll be no surprise.
While he longs for his Molly (though soon visits another)
Foes want to harm him, beat, hang, maim, and smother!
They’ll string him from tree limbs! They’ll maul him I swear!
They’ll brain him with biscuit tins flying through air!
 
 
Now please don’t be fightin’ for this or for thine,
Don’t be so dividin’, come on let’s combine!
Molly, he gave you lone garters ’tis true,
But he brought you face lotion and four handkerchiefs too
He’ll bring you more lotion if he remembers besides
But poor Poldy’s hit bottom and downward he slides.
Treat him gently, with kindness, bring him breakfast and treats.
And for Christ’s sake, Madam Molly, at least wash the sheets!
 

Sphinx face

There was once a young writer named Joyce whose diction was ribidly choice, And all his friends' woes were deduced from his prose which never filled anyone's purse. 12:30 am

To rise is to fall Sallust said,
Mother Rome is now beastily dead,
Beauty may be decorious
Intellect is quite glorious
But decline is where we are led
 
If you think I wrote that I’ll see red
Or blush ’till I’d rather be dead.
That will be fine
I’ll read in good time
When I’m sober his sheets will be read.
 
Listen to me I appeal,
This riddle is funny I feel!
What Opera smacks
of straight railway tracks?
The wheeze?  It’s the Rose of Castile!
 
Your joke is unusually clean.
Gee, you poked merely my spleen.
With umbrella I sigh,
play along for a guy.
I feel a strong weakness obscene.
 
You look like both past and present,
Yet you hold only a segment.
Take it from me,
Your will is not free.
I’ll show you, but it won’t be pleasant.