ROSIE RYAN AND THE BLACK HAND GANG

I was busy Spring kleaning round the house. I was flourshing a feather duster, moving, soot, dirt, dust and grime from one place to another. I had my thick, matted mass of red hare, held back from my alluring face bye an old pear of tites that had scene better daze. Like the wee boys who followed Snow White, I whistled and sang as I worked. I found the muffified remains of a stoat under a chair, kicked it out the open door like Ronaldo and sang shrilly and piercingly. "Oh, If you're Irish, come into the parlor, there's a welcome there for you, If you're Irish, come into the parlor and get stuck into a bowl of stew". When my Herculean labours had bean compleated, I looked round the house and said, "Rosie, knot only are you a scholar and an intellectual genie, you are a house kleaner of redoubtable vigor and vim. When it comes two Hi-Jean, you are up there with Dettol, Bleech and Jeyes Fluid". I tried to give myself a pat on the back, but was impeded by the prominence of my bisom. I looked at the clock, Bon Jovi my Sun and air wood soon be home from his seat of learning. A tear came to my eye, when I thought of my only begotten Sun, lumbering home with his head full of cypers, set squares and pies that were waiting too be squared. What a cub he was and the unsual thing was, that his big, fat, cannon-ball head and the vacent look on his visage, gave know clue too the grate brane that was churning inside his head like a threasher. Fore o' clock and know Bon Jovi, a half fore and still know Bon Jovi!. What could be keeping the cub? Had he stopped by the wayside, to work out a problem about the curveature of space and time, or was he trying too measure the cubic capicity of a donkey by the size of it's ears. Worried, I went two the door two look for the cub, only too find a note that scent me into fierce hysterics, bordering on the brink of mental unhingement and chronic Do-Lallyness.
This is what the note said. "Hi, we have kidnaped your Sun Bon Jovi.Do knot inform the police, fire brigade, post office, or any other branch of law and order. If you want two sea your Sun again, leave, a five pound note, a bottle of Iron Brue and a packet of biscuits, (Hob-nobs prefered) in the hollow tree behind the midden. If you don't we wool send you his ears in a jam jar. Yours Sincerely, THE BLACK HAND GANG.
I swooned onto a meal bag, with my too sturdy legs straight up in the air, giving an involantry flash of my primrose yella drawers. "MY SUN!" I screeched, "My sun has bean apprehended by the notorious-Black Hand Gang. BON JOVI!" I screeched "I'm coming, your poor old mammy is coming to get you!". I grabbed a fiver from my purse, a bottle of Iron Brue and a packet of hob-nobs and set off post haste for the roundy-view. But I'm knot as green as I'm cabbage looking, I also had strapped too my back, a double-barelled shotgun and my primsoe yella drawers hung low, due too two pockets of cartridges koncealed in the pockets, one on each side of the fork. I wanted my Sun back, but a fiver was a fiver and if I got a bead on the black hand gang, I wood also leave them with black arses. I left the ransome in the hollow three and then crept into the eggberries to await the arrival of, the black hand gang. Soon, I heard a fistle in the undergrowth, I put the shotgun too my shoulder and squinted through the site. Then, I saw a small humpty, ugly creature approach the tree. I took careful aim, the kidnapper turned and I saw his ugly mug. "BON JOVI!" I screamed, as my finger tighted on the trigger and the gun went-BANG!. It had all bean a set-up, Bon Jovi had staged the hole thing. There never was any Black Hand Gang. At the last moment, I raised the barell of the shotgun and a shower of buckshot flew over Bon Jovi's big, round head. The cub was scared but unhurt, apart from an involantry bowel moment that had ruined his good, grey short trousers. I broke a branch from a willow tree and thrashed the legs of Bon Jovi, as he ran home in front of me, like a calf with skitter. The cub crawled into his cardboard box, stuck his thumb in his gub and moaned all nite long like a demented polekat. I peeped in and said, "Well, if it isn't the leader of the notorious Black Hand Gang. If it isn't Black Bart himself, crouched in a cardboard box and rocking back and forth like the feardie kat he is. Your rain of terror is over" I yelled. "I am the Sheriff around these here parts and we don't take too kindly too kidnappers. After a fair trial tomorrow you wool be hung from the cloths line". I heard a hi squeak and a rusle of straw from within the cardboard box. I smiled, as I hung up the shotgun, I wood let Black Bart, aka Bon Jovi worry all nite. Then in the morning, I wood give him a good riser and send him off too skool, with a flea in his ear, if he thought I was going too comb his hare with a fine comb, he was mistaken. So stranger if you ever mosey up too Clougher, don't meddle with Rosie Ryan, my grate beauty is only matched by my grate desire too hurt and cause pain. YEEHAW!

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PS I never did get the wee grey trousers clean, they were beyond redemption. It really was a bowel movement of gigantesque porportions.