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This text is much shorter, but more difficult.  As I mentioned before,
I don't have the German version, and I would ask anyone who does
and is willing to post it, to please do so.  Thanks.


Ondoyons un poupon, dit Orgon, fils d'Ubu.  Bouffons choux, bijoux,
poux, puis du mou, du confit ; buvons, non point un grog : un punch.  Il but
du vin itout, du rhum, du whisky, du coco, puis il dormit sur un roc.  L'infini
bruit du ru couvrit son son.  Nous irons sous un pont o nous pourrons
promouvoir un dodo, dodo du poupon du fils d'Orgon fils d'Ubu.

Un condor prit son vol.  Un lion riquiqui sortit pour voir un dingo.  Un
loup fuit.  Un opossum court.  O vont-ils?  L'ours rompit son cou.
Il souffrit.  Un lis crot sur un mur : voici qu'il couvrit orillons ou
goulots du cruchon ou du pot pur stuc.

Ubu pond son poids d'or.


"I'm going to rock this child in his cot," sighs Orgon, son of Ubu.  "I'm
going to wolf down mutton, broccoli, dumplings, rich plum pudding.  I'm
going to drink, not grog, but punch."  Orgon drinks hock, too, rum, Scotch,
plus two hot brimming mugs of Bovril to finish up with, which soon prompts
him to nod off.  Running brooks drown out his snoring.  I stroll to rocks on
which I too will nod off, with Orgon's dozing son, with Orgon, son of Ubu.

Condors swoop down on us.  Poor scrofulous lions slink out, scrutinizing
dingos with scornful looks.  Chipmunks run wild.  Opossums run, too, without
stopping.  North or south?  I wouldn't know.  Plunging off clifftops, bison
splits limb in two.  It hurts.  Ivy grows on brick, rising up from stucco
pots to shroud windows or roofs.

From Ubu's bottom drops his own bulk in gold.


--
John Cowan <[log in to unmask]>     http://www.reutershealth.com
I amar prestar aen, han mathon ne nen,    http://www.ccil.org/~cowan
han mathon ne chae, a han noston ne 'wilith.  --Galadriel, _LOTR:FOTR_