Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 1
Jute. Load Allmarshy! Wid wad for a norse like? Mutt. Somular with a bull on a clompturf. Rooks roarum rex roome! I could snore to him of the spumy horn, with his woolseley side in, by the neck I am sutton on, did Brian d' of Linn. Jute. Boildoyle and rawhoney on me when I can beuraly forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic in such a pat- what as your rutterdamrotter. Onheard of and um- scene! Gut aftermeal! See you doomed. Mutt. Quite agreem. Bussave a sec. Walk a dunblink roundward this albutisle and you skull see how olde ye plaine of my Elters, hunfree and ours, where wone to wail whimbrel to peewee o'er the saltings, where wilby citie by law of isthmon, where by a droit of signory, icefloe was from his Inn the Byggning to whose Finishthere Punct. Let erehim ruhmuhrmuhr. Mearmerge two races, swete and brack. Morthering rue. Hither, craching eastuards, they are in surgence: hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce. Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this plage, flick as flowflakes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of whirlworlds. Now are all tombed to the mound, isges to isges, erde from erde. Pride, O pride, thy prize!