Scrawled on the label of a tin of Cowley’s Beans was the following: …a tithe of vicar’s plum for the blest James of Airlann, fader thrice-transubstantiate, eater of skillet-blacken kidney, highest-high Moyle of stropper, e’ though poor dead Paddy’s rotting, O’ yew cursed lye, oxen-cart re-crossing the Liffey at dawn, Moylan, reamer of surd, trackman’s stub weaning clove from crown and folly, mounting turret’s arse in excelsior Delores. Happy wee-birthday dearest dear James, adman, and blest be the heckle on the pub of yore neck. The man in he hat, not having the faintest idea what it meant, threw the empty tin of beans into the dustbin behind the Seder grocers and went this way that.
The next day the man in the hat found a tin of Skinflint Taters. He picked up the rusted tin, and turning it in his hands read the following: Grandmamma she wore a pillbox hat festooned with baubles and whatnot’s. Round roping her neck a scarf made from the rarest silk moue, a gift from the tinsmith, whose own hat was made from calf’s tongue and bleat’s testicle. He wore tied round his neck (his neck of spun tin and shale) an ascot cut with shears shearer than stone-ticking tick. He figured it was left behind by the same person who left the tin of Cowley’s Beans behind the Seder grocers. Not knowing what to make of it, he flattened the tin with the cob of his boot and threw it into the dustbin with the other tin, his mouth slattern with thirst, the sky turning grayer by the minute.
The next day the man in the hat found a tin of Skinflint Taters. He picked up the rusted tin, and turning it in his hands read the following: Grandmamma she wore a pillbox hat festooned with baubles and whatnot’s. Round roping her neck a scarf made from the rarest silk moue, a gift from the tinsmith, whose own hat was made from calf’s tongue and bleat’s testicle. He wore tied round his neck (his neck of spun tin and shale) an ascot cut with shears shearer than stone-ticking tick. He figured it was left behind by the same person who left the tin of Cowley’s Beans behind the Seder grocers. Not knowing what to make of it, he flattened the tin with the cob of his boot and threw it into the dustbin with the other tin, his mouth slattern with thirst, the sky turning grayer by the minute.
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