THE THOUGHTS AND POETIC UTTERANCES OF ROSIE RYAN

Under a lowering buttermilk sky, I found myself on the low road two Clougher. Clougher, the city of sin and depravity that is ritten of in the book of the Ah-pock-ah-lips and is whispered off, in muted whispers, in the bazaars of Babby-Lon and Con-stant-tay-noble. Clougher, where even the black imps of the devil wool knot set foot, due too tarra fear and feelings of repugance. Clougher, where the red Biddy flows like H2o and the roaring, shouting and guldering goes on two nine oh clock every Saturday nite. But I had good reason too visit the den of eeh-nick-quit'ee, I needed too buy a pan loaf, half a pound of streaky bacon and a toilet roll, the pink wan that is soft on the ars-derriere.
I whistled shrilly, like a pee-wheat as I walked and drank in the grate beauty of nature with my poetic occulars. The Clougher valley, what a site two behond. A veritable rain forest, where it is whispered, pigmays roam and canniballs gorge on the flesh of unsuspecting travellors, who have bean dragged off their bicycles and hit over the head with flint axes. What beauty lay before me, I drank it in like a wino, the flora, the fauna, the tweeting birds, the shrieking vermin, the Baa's of the sheeps on the hills, the Moo's of the bovines and the soft plop of a horse relieving itself. Beauty, beauty, every where I looked. I felt the poetic muse desend on me, my artistic hart gave a-leap and the colly-wobbles of inspiration set my gizzard a tingle. I could hold it in know longer, I had two give vent. I leaped out in the middle of the road like a devrish, arrayed in brown duffle coat, with wooden toggles on it and sparkling hobnailed boots, raised my slender, artistic arms Hi in the air and roared.
"OH, IRELAND WHERE THE GRASS IS GREEN
THE GREENEST GRASS THAT I HAVE SEEN
I CAN NOT THINK OF ANY CLEANER
THAT COULD MAKE THE GREEN GRASS, EVEN-GREENER".
Overcome with my own elequence, I cried aloud, "Oh Rosie, you have suppressed yourself, that was a cracker, and wool take it's plaice in your ledger of poetic and artistic utterances". As I stood there in the middle of the road like Keats, Browning or big-fellow, a small, brown cow, with it's hips covered in skitter, came up too a gait too view me. I looked into the bovines big, black eyes and new what it was thinking.
"There stands a rural, rustic midden, with the beauty and grace of Marlyon Monroe, before she fell in with the Kennedy's and deceased herself in the middle of the nite, with them damned, auld Temazepam" I gave a skip-like a would-land sprite and proceeded two Clougher, where the air is fowl and the pouplance is even-fowler. When I reached the city limits of Clougher, I poured a lemonade bottle of holly water over my self and ran into the Spar supermarket, yelling religlously, "FROM THE SNARES AND PITS OF THE DEVIL, MAY THE GOOD LORD DELIVER US".
Later that nite, after a good tightener of roast stoat, the buttered heels of pan loaves and teeming mugs of Iron Brue, Chuck Corona, my boy friend and my only begotten Sun, Bon Jovi lay round the fireside like three lurchers. A lot of wind had bean passed, since the last stoat bone had been crunched between salivating nashers. We were stuffed, stuffed too the gunnels. Suddenly, Bon Jovi broke wind with fierce and unnatural ferocity. "Hauld on boy" I yelled, "Just you hauld on there. Do you knot no that breaking wind, like the decanter of Port, goes round the table in a clock-wise direction? Chuck broke wind last, so it was my turn next, I was just easing up on wan hip, when you went and rattled the delph". Bon Jovi, snapped his fingers and roared, "I don't give a fig for convention". And the wee brute let another dunder, that scent the kat flying under the bed. "You-wee-wee--Pallestine" I roared, "If you were invited two Buckingham Palace and went on like that, too footmen wood have you in the tower before you could say, Fat's Domino" "Piffle-tiddle and tosh" sneered Bon Jovi "The wan who should go first is the wan that is in most need and rite now I need a good..." Then the wee gulpin, let go with the most almighy BANG, that scent the foto of the knew German Pope flying off the wall. That was when God stepped in, in an effort two startle, impress and amaze us, Bon Jovi inadvertently followed through. The juvinile, farting miscreant was banished from the dining table and scent out two the water barrell two cleanse himself. Chuck sighed and said, "Ah, the folly and stupidity of youth, many a thyme I have done the same myself". "We all have Chuck" I riposted, "But the cub wool have two learn two guage the pressure of internal combustion" After I had filled the room with lavander air spray, Chuck and I began two canoodle and indulge in some rumbustous gansey fisslin'. Like most ladies of gentility and quality, it takes more that the whiff of faces two put me off my canoodling. As Chuck sank his nashers into my long, swan-like, slender neck, like a vampire, we could heer the splashing of the untouchable outside the winda. How I laughed as Chuck whispered, "Seem's like a job for--Lifeboy".
My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, would make a better stocking filler, than a big, fat, blue-veined leg, but get in fast, not many left, order from...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And for something completly different, go to...
www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
And did Bon Jovi clean up? You betcha'