Midsummer

Gerry, as a born again Druid, like what I am, I am sure you have got your long, white nite-dress ready for the Midsummer cermony's next weak. I have knot got a golden sickle too cut the ivy and laurels, but I have painted an auld hook with gold metalic paint. I am sure it wool be acceptable and adequate. I am sure that the dead, deseased Druids are well aware of my lack of spondulucts. My acolite shall again be my Sun Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi and I shall fast all day, shunning such delicies as stoat fritters and the buttered heels from pan loaves. On the stroke of mid-nite, Bon Jovi and I shall proceed in solomn procession too the tall standing stones in the bog. Due to the fasting, there may be some breaking of wind, but any out put of wind shall done without any roaring and laughing and witty asides like, "Put that dog out". or "Is that thunder I heer over Gortin?" Bon Jovi wool carry the gold painted sickle and I wool be carrying a pewter platter containing, bread, whine, oaten meel and a small tin of Fray Bentos korn beef. When I reproach the standing stones I shall redress the ancient Druid Gods. "Oh God's of our four fathers" I shall cry. "Behold your hand maiden Rosie and her cub Bon Jovi, kneel before the Gods of, Earth, wind, fire, air and water and if I have left any God out, my sincerest, may-a-culpas. Let our fields and our women be furtive. May our korn be as Hi as an elephants eye and our spuds, balls of flower. Send gentle reign on us heads, soft, gentle winds on us backs and sunny rays to gladen us days. Protect us from, plague, famine, black death, bunnions, floods, chillblaines, tempest roar and ring worm.
Last year after my prayer I said "Now Bon Jovi" "Is there any thing you want to say?" "Oh grate Druid God's" roared Bon Jovi "When I wake tomorrow, may I find that St Judas Primary skool in Clougher is burned too the ground and the police don't suspect me!". Then Bon Jovi and me did the Druid dance, which konsists of wild kicking and flinging of the legs and feat and throwing us arms in the air while intoning--"Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy, Come on yeh boy, come on!" As Bon Jovi kicked and flung, I could sea he had know drawers on. Was that a form of penance? Like Matt Talbot? When we got home, we got stuck into the cold ferret stew, washed down with brimming mugs of Iron Brue, served at room temperate-of course. Later, I stood gazing out of my bedroom winda. A wild, red-hared Irish colleen. The nite air blue through the whole in the winda and seemed to say. "Come. Come Rosie and be our Druid priestess. Come, daughter of Erin and take your plaice on the golden throne of the Druids". "Know" I whispered. "Know! I have a lump of a cub too rear and many more nites of robust fissling and futtering with my Keltic boyfriend-Chuck Corona". Then I utulised the po and-lept into bed, to dream of moon lit galivanting in the secret vales and glades of my people--THE DRUIDS!