ROSIE RYAN,THE BEAUTIFUL BEAUTY IN THE BOG

Under a battleship grey sky, I made my way into Clougher, the Soddem and Begorragh of Tyrone. My slim, lithe, slender 18 stone figure was konsealed by my late mammies brown duffle koat, with the wooden toggles on it. Autumn, a thyme of mists and mellow fruits was almost upon us. The bracken in the shucks was brown and withered, there was a hint of gun metal blew in the still air and an over all feeling of mellon-golly. A falling leaf, the hint of wood smoke in the air and up on Hi, wild gooses, flying South in a V shaped formation. The wains were back at skool, getting stuck into sums, spelling and reeding. Only the holly and ivy were thriving, showing off their Lincon green, glossy leaves, like wreaths at the death of another year.
I whistled as I walked, and threw my too sturdy knees out from under my duffle koat like too red-faced bald-headed dwarfs. As I approached the city limits of Clougher, I was swinging my arms and shrilly whistling, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore." An old tradional, Irish air, which catalogues, in a humorus way, the sad demise of a pear of red flannel drawers, beloging two a collen called--Maggie, hense the title of the song.
I was in Clougher, Sin City, two get a pound of streaky bacon, too pan loaves and a wick for the tilly lamp. As I sauntered down the street, with decorum and fin-s, a drunk man came rolling out of a pub, and hit me a dunt on the fork of my drawers with his bald head. I gasped and recoiled. The drunken brute lay at my feet, looking up with a drunken leer on his ugly gub. "Give us a kiss" he slurred, "Go on yeh wee beauty, give us a kiss".
I bridled and retorted in a genteel way, "Get too hell you drunken auld brute, if you want a kiss, you kan kiss my arse". The drunken brute grinned and said, "OK, a kiss on the arse it will be" and he got to his knees and came towards me slurring, "Hold out that big, fat rump, 'till I plant a big smacker on it". I was revolted by revulsion, the drunken brute was on his knees, with his auld lips pursed out like a goldfish, it was plane that his retention was two kiss my petite derriere. Action was called for and I took it, I lifted my fist and hit him a batter on the side of the skull, he rolled over on his back, giving me ample oppertunity too kick the fork of him with my hobnailed boots. He was rolled up in a ball, shouting "Ah my nackers" as I flounced off, with decorum, grace and wild, fierce gentility. I new the auld brute, his name was Mandrake O'Toole, he was named after a hip-ta-nist, his auld father was well nown round Clougher as a piss pot. The peeple called him Peter the pisser, he had know kontrol over his bladder, and the number of sheets, blankets and pears of drawers on the cloths line gave credence to the story.
His wife, wee Mona Lisa tried everything she could think of two cure his erratic pissing. Wee Mona new auld Peter was a pisser when she married him, but like all women, she thought she could change him. "I'll soon put the pissing out of that boy" she declared before the wedding, but like many a woman before her, she found it was hard to change a man who urinated with impunity when ever he felt like it. Wee Mona tried everything, doctors, quacks and peeple living up mountains, who claimed to have the gift of curing persistant pissing. They all took his money, but no wan could cure auld Peter, if you ask me, they were all fly boys taking the piss out of poor, auld Peter. In desperation, wee Mona deceided to take auld Peter two Lourdes two seek a cure for the unnatural urnitation. When they got two Lourdes, wee Mona heeled him into the pool. lifted both arms to heaven and roared, "Oh Lord, if it be thy will, cure thy servant Peter Paul O'Toole from the affliction of pissing, that has befell him".
And the Lord heard and auld Peter was cured, in a kind of way, poor, auld Peter got a chill in the kidneys from being heeled into the cold water and passed away too weaks later, praising the Lord and yelling, "HALLELUIAH". And the undertaker said, when they lifted auld Peter out of the bed too put him in the coffin, the bed was as dry as toast. Just goes two show, the power of prayer.
Cold blue the wind, as Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me, hunkered in our love nest in the middle of the wet rushes. Curlew and snipe looked on as Chuck planted a smacker on my upturned, rose bud lips. I nibbled at Chuck's ear, like a dormouse, Chuck broke wind, with a plantive drone like the bagpipes and ran his rough, callas hands, threw my matted, mass of luxurant red hare. I shrieked like a mountain hair, Chuck growled like a donkey on steroids.
Our seeking lips met with a smack, like some wan battering a cod against a brick wall. I was lost--lost in the moment, my eye lashes, were fluttering like venetian blinds, my teeth were chattering like castenets and my too plump, sturdy knees, were jerking spasmodically like a rodent with rickets. Love was in the air, the electricity of passion crackled and sparked, like a nail bomb. Then--Then--Then a crowd of bullocks run over us, leaving us konfused, bewildered and covered in skitter and we had to go home and wash us selves with Lifeboy soap and a good splash of Dettol. The moment had passed, the magic had-gone, leaving a distinct aroma of cow skitter.
Ah Lamore, the sugar in my tay, the salt on my poundies.
If you wood like two reed my letters two Gerry Anderson, kontact this boy....
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And go now to..www,greatshowlastweekkid,blogspot.com
And funally, if you are having a good auld court, watch out for the bullocks. NO, its not a missprint, watch out for the--BULLOCKS. I'm not a complete fool. you know.