Th' cook'll give way to th' bartinder and th' doctor 'll
ordher people f'r to ate on'y at meals. Ye'll r-read in th' pa-apers
that 'Anton Boozinski, while crazed with ham an' eggs thried to kill his
wife an' childher.' On Pathrick's day ye'll see th' Dr. Tanner Anti-Food
Fife an' Drum corpse out at th' head iv th' procession instead iv th'
Father Macchews, an' they'll be places where a man can be took whin he
gets th' monkeys fr'm immodhrate eatin'. Th' sojers 'll complain that
th' liquor was unfit to dhrink an' they'll be inquiries to find out who
sold embammin' flood to th' ar-rmy--Poor people 'll have simple meals--
p'raps a bucket iv beer an' a little crame de mint, an' ye'll r-read in
th' pa-apers about a family found starvin' on th' North side, with
nawthin' to sustain life but wan small bottle iv gin, while th' head iv
th' family, a man well known to the polis, spinds his wages in a low
doggery or bakeshop fuddlin' his brains with custars pie. Th' r-rich 'll
inthrajoose novelties. P'raps they'll top off a fine dinner with a
little hasheesh or proosic acid. Th' time'll come whin ye'll see me in a
white cap fryin' a cocktail over a cooksthove, while a nigger hollers to
me: 'Dhraw a stack iv Scotch,' an' I holler back: 'On th' fire.
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