plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead,
bearing a bowl of lather;
a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled
gently behind him: the mild morning air.
The bowl aloft, he intoned:
— Introibo ad altare Dei.
Coarsely he called up | down the dark winding stairs :
— Come up, Kinch ! Come up, you fearful jesuit.
Solemnly forward, mounting the gunrest round,
he blessed gravely thrice:
the tower, surrounding country, awaking mountains.
Catching sight of Stephen Dedalus;
bent, he made rapid crosses in the air,
gurgling his throat, shaking his head.
Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned
arms on the top of the staircase, looked
coldly; the shaking gurgling face, blessing—
equine length, untonsured hair:
Mulligan peeped under the mirror, an instant;
covered the bowl smartly.
— Back to barracks ! sternly.
— For this, O dearly beloved; the genuine
Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.
Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents.
A little trouble about those white corpuscles.
paraphrased from: “Ulysses” — James Joyce