Saturday 12 September 2009

Reflections and Toilet Roll

The son, that grate big orb of compressed hydrogen and helium was shinning down like a big yella lump of Craft mature chedder cheese. A lite western zephyr breeze was blowing merrily from the North.
'Twas a wee pet day at the end of Summer. A day that stood, legs akimbo with one foot in Summer and the other foot in Autumn. Beauty, bathed in a disfused lite lay all around. Beauty, attired in fashionable, fastidious exquisite Autumnal colours. The small, irregular fields had bean exfoliated of hey, korn and wheet. Like a fat woman wearing stays, all had bean safely gathered in. Nature was in a period of reajustment. Waiting, silently and ethereally for the scales to tilt and Autumn take prerequisite over Summer. Prebubescant Autumn was biting at the heels of Summer, like a young, healthy jack russel nipping at a weary, tired old sheep who was seeking a place to die.
Sad. Yes, 'tis sad. But 'tis the way of all things. We are born, we live and then we die. Time flows but in one direction. There is no going back. No stopping along the way. The road of life is laid out before us. Many have trodden the same path before. 'Tis a universal truth that though the road of life may be long or short it leads but to the grave. The only purpose in life is to march to the beat of a muffled drum towards death.A withered leaf fell from a tree. A harbinger of the holocaust that would soon follow.
When Marcel Proust lay on his death bed, he billowed the duvet with a ferocious breaking of wind and gasped.
"Nurse, nurse, no more baked beens and that's an order".
Then he closed his eyes and passed away. Before Hitler blew his branes out he yelled-gutterly.
"Mien Gott, this is some hanlin".
Before Nero drank the poison, he looked all around and said.
"If I hadn't played the fiddle, I think I would have got away with it!".
Saint Patrick, rose weakly from his death bed of rushes and said.
"My God, is it still raining?"
Joan of Arc, looked at the angry mob and began to sing.
"Come on baby light my fire".
I gave myself a shake and hurried on towards Clougher. I was on a mission, a mission of mercy. For fore daze my Sun Bon Jovi and me had no toilet paper. Us arses were red and raw from using grass, dockens and wisps of straw. Due to intense chaffing, I walked with a wide-legged striddle. Soon I wood return home with the soft, velvet bum fodder so beloved by the little labrator pup. And in the fullness of time Bon Jovi and me wood once again, walk, dance, kick and up us heels as time, the grate healer wood heal us rectums and remove any memory of pane and discomfort.
All of a stridle-straddle I hurried home and cursed as a flock of sheep ran between my out-stretched legs. In the melee, I managed to grab two handfulls of wool. I scurried into the under growth and used the wool in loo of toilet paper. OH, the relief. Wool contains lanolin. Which is made up from a mixture of palmitate, oleate and stearate of cholesterol. Which is a natural healing balm for chaffing, redness or fissures in the rectual area. So, if caught in the throes of heftedness, a sheep is yer man!.

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