VOICES: (SUBDUED) For the Caliph. Haroun Al Raschid.
BELLO: (GAILY) Right. Let them all come. The scanty, daringly short
skirt, riding up at the knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a
potent weapon and transparent stockings, emeraldgartered, with the long
straight seam trailing up beyond the knee, appeal to the better instincts
of the BLASE man about town. Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch
Louis Quinze heels, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the thighs
fluescent, knees modestly kissing. Bring all your powers of fascination
to bear on them. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.
BLOOM: (BENDS HIS BLUSHING FACE INTO HIS ARMPIT AND SIMPERS WITH
FOREFINGER IN MOUTH) O, I know what you're hinting at now!
BELLO: What else are you good for, an impotent thing like you? (HE STOOPS
AND, PEERING, POKES WITH HIS FAN RUDELY UNDER THE FAT SUET FOLDS OF
BLOOM'S HAUNCHES) Up! Up! Manx cat! What have we here? Where's your curly
teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly? Sing, birdy, sing.
It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. Buy a
bucket or sell your pump.
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