Hooligan Ruffian Mountebank

These are the thoughts of a hooligan, a ruffian, a mountebank. These are the manners of a crapper, a mountebank and a hooligan. Sleep comes to those who wait, though the quay is long and crooked, bent over double like a witches’ spine, rib to rib to stay to stoma. Nary a welt or a crapper I, nether neither either or, line up to the left, no the right, off-centre and a wee bit to the offside; nor a neither either or, you hooligan you. No man no hat neither either nor, neither shamble legged or alms, just a crooked bent line, a quail’s foot, no a wren’s foot tangled in the over-brush. I see you said you saw a flying-machine flying and soaring in the tame blue yonder, so you said saying, over there, look, off-centre and to the left, no the right, right of quay. I disremember all this that and that like it never happened at all, nary never, no. Fancy that will you, a mountebank with a hooligan’s tam-o-shanter and a ball O Slot’s Whisky. Fancy that, fancy.