Desolate was the bog. A dull, slate grey sky loomed over the the faded heather like an unpainted celestial ceiling. Cold winds blue hither and either. All birds were grounded. All animal life had taken to the bed. Rain clouds dropped their pay loads of h2o as they made their way towards Gortin and surrounding districts. 'Twas a seen of-desolation. A seen of-isolation and a seen of intemperate, insidious-intersteller, interminable intensification. In other words, it was a wild bad day. Under the shelter of an elderberry bush, stood my true love Chuck Corona and me. We were clinging on to each other. Looking into us respective visages and muttering-seductively.
"OH CHUCK" I coo'ed.
"OH ROSIE" Gasped Chuck.
"Oh Chuck" I mummered "My wee marshmallow".
"Oh Rosie" growled Chuck "My wee fairy cake".
I looked at Chuck, his rugged face full of love, passion and acne and muttered.
"As Cicero said of Plato, "Instar omnium" you Chuck Corona are indeed "Worth all other men".
Deer Chuck made a masculine spalter and grasped me to his manly bisum.
I was-lost, lost in the beauty of the moment. Swoon after swoon swept through my highly headucated brane. My ears were ringing, my hart was singing and my strong, sturdy legs had turned to Chivers jelly. As I moaned like a cougar, I dug my hobnailed boots into the muck and clabber in an attempt to gain traction.
It was then I slipped on snipe skitter and fell. As I fell I grasped on to Chuck with my long,cadallic pink, Marliyn Monroe nails. My painted talons slipped down the front of Chuck's lovely olive green cargo pants. The zip on the henchanting fork of Chucks trousers brusted. I fell towards terra firma, still clutching Chuck's trousers and gave my forehead a good dunt on a small stone. Groggily I looked up, only to sea Chuck with his trousers round his ankles and written large on the fork of his Y-fronts, the clarion call for Irish men and women everywhere,
"ERIN GO BRAGH" Still in a groggy state, I saluted and yelled "GOD SAVE IRELAND". I looked up at Chuck. Chuck looked down at me. We both know what we had done. We had transgressed. We had besmirched auld Ireland. We had behaved abominably towards-Hibernia. While traversing the path of love, tenderness and passion, we had, inadvertinaly strayed into the path of politics. Chuck pulled up his trousers while muttering.
"'Tis a terrible, tarra thing we have done".
I spaltered to my feet shrieking.
"Oh mother Ireland. Forgive us, we know not what we do'es".
Then, all passion spent, Chuck and me set off over the squelshing bog. We entered my rural, cunt'ry abode in silence. Divested us selves of us outer garments and sat down to too big mugs of tay and a plate containing six Wagon Wheels.
Later that nite, I decided to take my SUN Bon Jovi in hand. Lately the lump of a cub has bean showing all the traits of a rite gulpin. I have waited to sea the flowering of Bon Jovi's artistic temperment, but alas, I have waited in vein. The gulpin used pages out of my well thumbed copy of Proust for toilet paper. And has bean heard on more than one occasion to refer to the venerable Bach, as that deef auld head the ball. So last nite I decided enough was enough. I grabed the cub, tied him to a chair, stuffed a urine saturated floor cloth into his gaping mouth and made him listen to fore hours of Hi-brow opera. The cub didn't like it. He kicked, he flung and the eyes were bulging out of his head like a kat kitteling.
"No pane, no gain" I cried to Bon Jovi. As the operatic gulderings and shriekings threatened to lift the roof off the house. I gritted my teeth and stuck with it. I rolled my head from side to side like a bedlamite and conducted the music with a toasting fork.
"Don't fight it" I yelled to Bon Jovi. "Soak it up. Let the gulderings open the secret door to your artistic hart. Go with the flow" I roared. "Try to take something, anything from this cathartic, artistic caterwauling"
Bon Jovi over-turned the chair and fell with a clatter to the floor. His face was as red as a beetroot and his bulging oculars were threatening to leap out of his bleezing visage.
"Don't fight it" I bawled, as the music rose to a cresendo and rattled the panes of glass in the winda.
THEN! with a mighty flourish, it was over.
"Devine" I muttered "Simply-devine" as I untied the prone cub who had sprung from my fruitful lions.
Bon Jovi lay on the floor, gasping like a spent salmon. Gradually the lump of a cub got to his feet and glared at me. He tried to speak, but choked. Drool ran in rivelets down his chin. He was all a tremble like an eel who had scene a ghost. The wet stain on the fork of his trousers, denoted that the music had drawn some emotional responce from the juvinile Palestinian.
I gazed at my SUN and said.
"Well my bon-a-mee, was that knot a culture extravaganza worthy of the God's on mount Olympus?"
The cub glared at me and roared.
"Rosemary West!, that's what you is. You is worser than Rosemary West. Even she and her hubby Fred, wood knot stoop to torture like that.
I am going outside" yelled the cub "Too see how many sprogs you have koncealed in the garden and surrounding districts". And Bon Jovi went out slamming the door behind him. I smiled. The effort had not bean in vain. I could swear that during that during the opera when the man was roaring like a constipated donkey. I saw my Sun, Bon Jovi beat his head against the floor in time with the music.No, all the operatic guldering, yelling, bawling and shrieking, did not fall upon stony ground.
As to Rosemary West, I have no misconseption, she must be some auld bag who lives in Clougher.