After all there’s a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles.  Pain to the animal too.  Pluck and draw fowl.  Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open.  Moo.  Poor trembling calves.  Meh.  Staggering bob.  Bubble and squeak.  Butchers’ buckets wobbly lights.  Give us that brisket off the hook.  Plup.  Rawhead and bloody bones.  Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust.  Top and lashers going out.  Don’t maul them pieces, young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline.  Blood always needed. 
Insidious.  Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary.  Famished ghosts.

Ah, I’m hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne’s.  Moral pub.  He doesn’t chat.  Stands a drink now and then.  But in leapyear once in four.  Cashed a cheque for me once.

What will I take now?  He drew his watch.  Let me see now.  Shandygaff?

—­Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

—­Hello, Flynn.

—­How’s things?

—­Tiptop ...  Let me see.  I’ll take a glass of burgundy and ... let me see.

Sardines on the shelves.  Almost taste them by looking.  Sandwich?  Ham and his descendants musterred and bred there.  Potted meats.  What is home without Plumtree’s potted meat?  Incomplete.  What a stupid ad!  Under the obituary notices they stuck it.  All up a plumtree.  Dignam’s potted meat.  Cannibals would with lemon and rice.  White missionary too salty.  Like pickled pork.  Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour.  Ought to be tough from exercise.  His wives in a row to watch the effect.  There was A right royal old nigger.  Who ate or something the SOMETHINGS of the reverend Mr MACTRIGGER.  With it an abode of bliss.  Lord knows what concoction.  Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up.  Puzzle find the meat.  Kosher.  No meat and milk together.  Hygiene that was what they call now.  Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside.  Peace and war depend on some fellow’s digestion.  Religions.  Christmas turkeys and geese.  Slaughter of innocents.  Eat drink and be merry.  Then casual wards full after.  Heads bandaged.  Cheese digests all but itself.  Mity cheese.

—­Have you a cheese sandwich?

—­Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them.  Italian I prefer.  Good glass of burgundy take away that.  Lubricate.  A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress.  Puts gusto into it.  Pure olive oil.  Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley.  Take one Spanish onion.  God made food, the devil the cooks.  Devilled crab.

—­Wife well?

—­Quite well, thanks ...  A cheese sandwich, then.  Gorgonzola, have you?