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fingering the organ keys

Mrs Pugh: Persons with manners do NOT read at table.

First Voice: She swallows a digestive tablet big as a horse-pill, washing it down with a clouded peasoup water.

Mrs P: Some persons were brought up in pigstys.
Mr P: Pigs don't read at table, dear. Pigs can't read, my dear.
Mrs P: I know one who can.

First V: Alone in the hissing laboratory of his wishes, Mr Pugh minces among bad vats and jeroboams, tiptoes through spinnies of murdering herbs, agony dancing in his crucibles, and mixes, espeically for Mrs Pugh, a venomous porridge unknown to toxicologists which will scald and viper through her until her ears fall off and her toes grow big and black as balloons and steam comes screaming out of her navel!

Mr P: You know best, dear --
First V: --- and quick as a flash he dunks her in rat soup.
Mrs P: What's that book by your trough, Mr Pugh?
Mr P: It's a theological work, my dear: "Lives of the Great Saints [and Poisoners]".
First V: Mrs P smiles and an icicle forms in the cold air of the dining vault.

Mrs P : I saw you talking to a Saint this morning: Saint Polly Garter. She was martyred again last night: Mrs Organ Morgan saw her with Mr Waldo.

Mrs Organ Morgan : And when they saw me they pretended they were looking for nests. But you don't go nesting in halfbuttoned overalls, I said to myself, like Mr Waldo was wearing, and your dress nearly over your head like Polly Garter's: no, they didn't fool me! And when you think of all those babies she's got, then all I can say is she better give up bird nesting that's all I can say --- all for a woman who can't say NO, even to midgets.

Remember Bob Spit? He wasn't any bigger than a baby and he gave her two. But they're two nice boys, I'll say that: Fred Spit and Arthur. Sometimes I like Fred best and sometimes I like Arthur. Who do you like best, Organ?

Mr Organ Morgan : Oh, Bach without any doubt. Bach every time for me.

Mrs Organ M : Organ Morgan, you haven't been listening to a word I said. It's organ organ all the time with you ....

Mr Organ M : And then, Palestrina.

Mrs Organ M : Up till every midnight playing the organ...O, I am a martyr to music.

Polly: The morning fishwife gulls observe me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little milky creature: you're thinking, you're no better than you should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me.

Isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?

----------------

:Dylan Thomas, "Under Milk Wood: a play for voices" (c)1953, 1954 [excerpt]

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