For centuries untold, the cornflowers have adorned the fields of Ballymun, the dusk rose has claimed the hedges of Goatstown, and the intertwining tulips have graced the sweet Rush in the mesmerizing dance of the twilight. The whitethorn and the Redhorn have enchanted the may valleys of Knockmaroon, standing resilient against the passing of numerous ages. As the Fomorians have withstood the trials of time, the Oxman has faced the challenges posed by the Firebugs, while the Joynts have erected grand structures in contrast to the Kevanses.
Amidst this captivating tapestry, the Money Tree remains a beacon of prosperity, nurturing the very essence of city life. The eloquent babblers, adorned with their exquisite attire, have been enraptured (confounded by confusion!) as they came and went; cunning tricksters, graceful songbirds, alluring nymphs, and charming paramours.
Finnegan's Wake
Thus, too, for donkey's years. Since the bouts of Hebear and Hairyman the cornflowers have been staying at Ballymun, the duskrose has choosed out Goatstown's hedges, twolips have pressed togatherthem by sweet Rush, townland of twinedlights, the whitethorn and the redthorn have fairygeyed the mayvalleys of Knockmaroon, and, though for rings round them, during a chiliad of perihelygangs, the Formoreans have brittled the tooath of the Danes and the Oxman has been pestered by the Firebugs and the Joynts have thrown up jerrybuilding to the Kevanses and Little on the Green is childsfather to the City (Year! Year! And laughtears!), these paxsealing buttonholes have quadrilled across the centuries and whiff now whafft to us, fresh and made-of-all-smiles as, on the eve of Killallwho. The babbelers with their thangas vain have been (confusium hold them!) they were and went; thigging thugs were and houhnhymn songtoms were and comely norgels were and pollyfool fiansees.
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