Wednesday 29 October 2008

A TALE OF LOVE IN THE UNDER GROWTH

Under a mellow, yella gibboness moon, I tripped-gaily with my boyfriend Chuck Corona. My newly polished hobnailed boots crunched on a veritable carpet of fallen, Autumnal leaves. Howls flew overhead and hooted excitely when they spied a fleeing, scurrying rodent, who had left the nest for an alfresco slash or indeed a number too. I shivered like frogspawn, I felt-eyes upon me, the eyes of the night. I clung onto Chuck like a wino clutching a bottle of red biddy. I was attired alluringly in Autumnal brown. My mammies brown duffle coat, with the wooden toggles on it, brown tites and a flowing dress in a delightful hue of umber. I was a-vision, a vision too behold, as I walked threw the stark, dead forest, throwing my feet out with abandon and swinging my arms with youthful, feminine grace and charm. Any imp, pixie, gnome or hobgoblin, that was peeping from behind the withered flora and fauna, could knot help but see, that the human who was Rosie Ryan, was indeed, fair of form and face. I felt at home in the gloomy forest, us Ryan's has a little fairy blood in us veins. This interesting abnormality manifested itself in a love, some mite say, an addiction for hollow logs and toad stools. My long, matted mass of red hare, was none encumbered with ribbon, clasp or hare grip. I was, naturale, a free spirit, an-imp of the forest, gambling freely, like a forest sprite, giving off a glow, a sensual glow of womenly beauty, poise and grace. I stood alone as deer Chuck went behind an ancient oak tree for a slash. I kicked leaves, wantonly and surveyed my surroundings with big, brown eyes, akin two a dear that had the guts tore out of it with a shotgun and was stone dead. Chuck came from behind the oak tree, wiping his hands on his firm, muscular manly hips. "Ah, that's better" cried Chuck "better out than in" and without any warning or preamble, put his foot behind me and coped me on the broad of my back on a carpet of leaves. When I fell, I gave a yelp like a pup with distemper and broke wind in a charming, feminine, lady-like way. Chuck lay on top of me, like a sack of spuds. I gazed in wonder at the vibrating hairs in Chuck's flared nostrils. "Was this were the ancient Irish got the idea for the harp?" I wondered. Deer Chuck looked down at me and my grate beauty awoke the muse that slumbers in all with Celtic blood. Chuck, red his throat, burped, broke wind and came out with this poetic verse, that I wool simply have to get sewn into a sampler. It goes-thus...
" IS THERE ANYTHING ON EARTH THAT'S GREATER
THAN ROSIE RYAN AH, IT'S HARD TO BEAT HER
WHEN I AM DYING FROM A HEART ATTACK
I'LL THINK OF ROSIE-ON HER BACK".
"Devine" I shrieked "Simply-devine. Oh Chuck, you could have made a few bob, going round the Irish castles, singing, dancing and regalling all with your poetic utterances" Chuck smiled down at me, with a bewitching glint in his coal black eyes. "What are you smiling at, you-you-little tadpole?" I said. "Chuck leered like a gargoyle and said, "I've got a-little something for you my sweet". "Where?-Where?" I ejaculated shrilly, with a look in my occulars like a wain on Kristmas morning. "It's in my pocket" said Chuck "my-trouser pocket". "Oh, you little tease" I yelled, as I stuck my hand into his pocket to the elbow. My groaping digits found something, but it wiggled away. "What is it?" I yelled, "It keeps moving" I tried again and pulled the wriggler out. And there it was, a lovely little, green frog. "It's a presant for Bon Jovi" said Chuck "I no that the cub is into vermin, rodents and all kinds of aquatic mammals". "Oh Chuck" I trilled, "Bon Jovi wool love this little toad, he who sprang from my lions, has grate repore with anything that isn't human" "Now" said Chuck, leering down at me like Bob Hoskins, how about a kiss for the bearer of the frog" In my eagerness too meet him half way, I dung my hobnailed boots ito the earth for traction, but alas and alac, slipped on skitter and head-butted Chuck rite in the face. I had some hanlin' getting the blood out of my flowing, umber dress. Poor Chuck got too stitches in his upper lip and wan in the bottom. --The bottom lip, I mean, knot his-bottom. Deer Chuck is sitting at home, sucking champ and Iron Brue through a straw. LOve, L'amore, kan be so-painful, just look at Romero and Julie.I am sitting alone at home, with my tongue between my ruby red lips, sewing deer Chuck's poetic utterance of love into a sampler. Some day, when Chuck and I are both dust, for two dust we do return, that sampler will remain, a lasting testimony of the love that Chuck Corona had for the midden Rosie Ryan. And people wool look at it and go, "Aah, isn't that sweet"
If you want my book of letters to gerry anderson for christmas, go to
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And try my friend at..
www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
PS You may be interested two no, that Chuck's nashers are in situ and intact.

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