At Swim-two-birds by Flann O’Brien Page B

week you come across a man like that.
    Do you know what I’m going to tell you, Mr Lamont, he was a man that could give the lot of them a good start, pickaxe and all. He was a man that could meet them…and meet thebest…and beat them at their own game, now I’m telling you.
    I suppose he could, said Furriskey.
    Now I know what I’m talking about. Give a man his due. If a man’s station is high or low he is all the same to the God I know. Take the bloody black hats off the whole bunch of them and where are you?
    That’s the way to look at it, of course, said Furriskey.
    Give them a bloody pick, I mean, Mr Furriskey, give them the shaft of a shovel into their hand and tell them to dig a hole and have the length of a page of poetry off by heart in their heads before the five o’clock whistle. What will you get? By God you could take off your hat to what you’d get at five o’clock from that crowd and that’s a sure sharkey.
    You’d be wasting your time if you waited till five o’clock if you ask me, said Furriskey with a nod of complete agreement.
    You’re right there, said Shanahan, you’d be waiting around for bloody nothing. Oh I know them and I know my hard Casey too. By Janey he’d be up at the whistle with a pome a yard long, a bloody lovely thing that would send my nice men home in a hurry, home with their bloody tails between their legs. Yes, I’ve seen his pomes and read them and…do you know what I’m going to tell you, I have loved them. I’m not ashamed to sit here and say it, Mr Furriskey. I’ve known the man and I’ve known his pomes and by God I have loved the two of them and loved them well, too. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr Lamont? You, Mr Furriskey?
    Oh that’s right.
    Do you know what it is, I’ve met the others, the whole lot of them. I’ve met them all and know them all. I have seen them and I have read their pomes. I have heard them recited by men that know how to use their tongues, men that couldn’t be beaten at their own game. I have seen whole books filled up with their stuff, books as thick as that table there and I’m telling you no lie. But by God, at the heel of the hunt, there was only one poet for me.
    On the morning of the third day thereafter, said Finn, he was flogged until he bled water.
    Only the one, Mr Shanahan? said Lamont.
    Only the one. And that one poet was a man…by the name…of Jem Casey. No ‘Sir’, no ‘Mister’, no nothing. Jem Casey, Poet of the Pick, that’s all. A labouring man, Mr Lamont; but as sweet asinger in his own way as you’ll find in the bloody trees there of a spring day, and that’s a fact. Jem Casey, an ignorant God-fearing upstanding labouring man, a bloody navvy. Do you know what I’m going to tell you, I don’t believe he ever lifted the latch of a school door. Would you believe that now?
    I’d believe it of Casey, said Furriskey, and
    I’d believe plenty more of the same man, said Lamont. You haven’t any of his pomes on you, have you, Mr Shanahan?
    Now take that stuff your man was giving us a while ago, said Shanahan without heed, about the green hills and the bloody swords and the bird giving out the pay from the top of the tree. Now that’s good stuff, it’s bloody nice. Do you know what it is, I liked it and liked it well. I enjoyed that certainly.
    It wasn’t bad at all, said Furriskey, I have heard worse, by God, often. It was all right now.
    Do you see what I’m getting at, do you understand me, said Shanahan. It’s good, very good. But by Christopher it’s not every man could see it, I’m bloody sure of that, one in a thousand.
    Oh that’s right too, said Lamont
    You can’t beat it, of course, said Shanahan with a reddening of the features, the real old stuff of the native land, you know, stuff that brought scholars to our shore when your men on