I whispered, 'I am too drunk,'
And then, 'I am not drunk enough';
Wherefore I grew a potato
To find out if I might eat.
'Peel your spud, peel your spud, young man,
If the gravy be young and fair.'
Ah, potato, sweet potato,
I am looped in the loops of your hair.
O spud is the crooked thing,
There is no Angle wide enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be searching for the peeler
Till the forks had run away
And the knives hidden behind the Moomin spoons.
Ah, potato, sweet potato,
One cannot *M*A*S*H* too soon.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/jun/14/jeremy-corbyn-on-joyces-ulysses-dont-beat-yourself-up-if-you-dont-understand-it
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