An' remember, God loves the Irish--Kwaque! Go fetch 'm two bottle beer fella stop 'm along icey-chestis!--Why, the very mug of you, my lad, sticks out Irish all over it." (Michael's tail beat a tattoo.) "Now don't be blarneyin' me.
'Tis well I'm wise to your insidyous, snugglin', heart-stealin' ways.
I'll have ye know my heart's impervious.

'Tis soaked too long this many a day in beer.

I stole you to sell you, not to be lovin' you.

I could've loved you once; but that was before me and beer was introduced.
I'd sell you for twenty quid right now, coin down, if the chance offered.
An' I ain't goin' to love you, so you can put that in your pipe 'n' smoke it." "But as I was about to say when so rudely interrupted by your 'fectionate ways--" Here he broke off to tilt to his mouth the opened bottle Kwaque handed him.

He sighed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and proceeded.
"'Tis a strange thing, son, this silly matter of beer.