Page 240 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh
Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
As he mostly sees double

To wear them why trouble?
I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?
In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother
is beastly dead.
Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.
—That’ll be all right, he said. I’ll read the rest after.
That’ll be all right.
Lenehan extended his hands in protest.
—But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a
railwayline?
—Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.
Lenehan announced gladly:
—The Rose of Castile. See the wheeze? Rows of cast
steel. Gee!
He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen.
Mr O’Madden Burke fell back with grace on his umbrella,
feigning a gasp.
—Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with
the rustling tissues.

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