The Demand That I Make Of My

The Intellectual Imagination! With Me All Or Not At All. Non Serviam!

I'll Tickle His Catastrophe.

An Irishman Needs Three Things : Silence, Cunnning, And Exile.

We Are An Unfortunate Priest-ridden Race And Always Were And Always Will Be Tell The End Of The Chapter.... A Priest-ridden Godforsaken Race.

He Passes, Struck By The Stare Of Truculent Wellington But In The Convex Mirror Grin Unstruck The Bonham Eyes And Fatchuck Cheekchops Of Jollypoldy The Rixdix Doldy.