A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Wednesday, March 10, 2004



F I N I G A N 'S W A K E

Tim Finigan liv'd in Walker Street,
An Irish Gentleman mighty odd,
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world he carried the hod;
But you see he'd a sort of a tip-ling way
With a love of liquor poor Tim was born,
And to help him through his work each day,
He'd a drop of the creature ev'-ry morn.

(Chorus) (Boisterous)
Whack, hur-rah, dance to your partners,
Welt the flute your trot-ters shake,
Is-n't it truth I've told ye,
Lot's of fun at Fin-i-guns wake.

One morning Tim was rather full,
His head felt heavy, which made him shake,
He felt from the ladder and broke his skull;
So they carried him home his corpse to wake:
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
And laid him out upon the bed,
With fourteen candles round his feet,
And a couple of dozen around his head.


His friends assembled at this wake,
Missus Finigan called out for the lunch:
First they laid in tay and cake
Then pipes and tombaky and whiskey punch.
Miss Biddy O'Neil, began to cry:
"Such a purty corpse did you ever see:
Arrah! Tim avourneen, an' why did ye die?"
"Och, none of your gab", sez Judy Magee.


Then Peggy O'Connor took up the job,
"Arrah, Biddy" says she, "ye'er wrong I'm sure."
But Judy then gave her a belt on the gob.
I left her sprawling on the fure.
Each side in war did soon engage:
'Twas woman to woman and man to man:
Shillelah law was all the rage,
And a bloody ruction soon began.


Mickey Mulvaney raised his head,
When a gallon of whiskey flew at him
It missed him_and hoping on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Bedad! he revives! see how he raises!
An' Timothy jumping from the bed,
Cries, while he lathered around like blazus:
"Bad luck till yer souls d'ye think I'm dead!"


By Charles Glover, 1860's

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