A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Wipe your glasses with what you know.
I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.
Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.