"He thinks he's hallucinating" m

[alice wellintown]

Drink to my legs and I'll drink to your arse that has fallen off.

In behalf of the dignity of [ readers], I would fain advance naught
but substantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate
who should wholly suppress a not unreasonable surmise, which might
tell eloquently upon his cause- such an advocate, would he not be
blame-worthy?

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Upon my soul, he’s been studying Murray’s Grammar!  Improving his
mind, poor fellow!  But what’s that he says now—hist!”

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Why, he’s getting it by heart—hist! again.”

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Well, that’s funny.”

“And I, you, and he; and we, ye, and they, are all bats; and I’m a
crow, especially when I stand a’top of this pine tree here.  Caw! caw!
caw! caw! caw! caw!  Ain’t I a crow?  And where’s the scare-crow?
There he stands; two bones stuck into a pair of old trowsers, and two
more poked into the sleeves of an old jacket.”

“Wonder if he means me?—complimentary—poor lad!—I could go hang
myself.  Any way, for the present, I’ll quit Pip’s vicinity.  I can
stand the rest, for they have plain wits; but he’s too crazy-witty for
my sanity.  So, so, I leave him muttering.”

“Here’s the ship’s navel, this doubloon here, and they are all one
fire to unscrew it.  But, unscrew your navel, and what’s the
consequence?  Then again, if it stays here, that is ugly, too, for
when aught’s nailed to the mast it’s a sign that things grow
desperate.  Ha! ha! old Ahab! the White Whale; he’ll nail ye!  This is
a pine tree.  My father, in old Tolland county, cut down a pine tree
once, and found a silver ring grown over in it; some old darkey’s
wedding ring.  How did it get there?  And so they’ll say in the
resurrection, when they come to fish up this old mast, and find a
doubloon lodged in it, with bedded oysters for the shaggy bark.  Oh,
the gold! the precious, precious gold!—the green miser’ll hoard ye
soon!  Hish! hish!  God goes ‘mong the worlds blackberrying.  Cook!
ho, cook! and cook us!  Jenny! hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Jenny, Jenny!
and get your hoe-cake done!”