Saturday 20 February 2010

BEAUTY POISE AND GRACE

'Oft has it bean said by discriminating gentlemen.
That there languages in a bog just outside Clougher city limits. A damson of unparelled beauty, poise and grace. I is that beauty. I is Rosie Ryan, the pride of Clougher and surrounding districts.
Lack a day. Lack a day, 'Ner a day goes bye, but a kar wool travail by my rural rustic cottage. Reverse, roll down the winda and yell.
"HI ROSIE! MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS".
Does that happen to Kate Moss as she clumps down Carnaby street in London? I think knot.
I Rosie Ryan have that special something. That sets me apart from other weemen. I seem to give of an aura, a smell. 'Tis intangible but I have it in spades.
It kan knot bee bought. It occurs quite early on in the fertilised egg. A spark. A secret something. A gift from the Gods?. Who nose. But something magical happens. Something which insures that the creature who emerges from that fertilised egg, wool be pointed at, by those whose fertilised egg was not touched.
I have been touched. I Rosie Ryan have bean touched big time.
BEAUTY. What is it? Fare of form and face I suppose. Two big red bleezers of cheeks are proof that their owner is endowed with a rare and frightening beauty. Gnashers in abundance is also a fare indicater of grate beauty.
POISE. What is poise. Poise comes from the Greek "Poissely", which means knot too lumber about like an auld donkey with december.
Head Hi. Chest out. Terriere-clenched. That my friends is my deficiency of-poise.
GRACE. What is grace. Grace, Some of you with a devil may care altitude and a heathenish disposition wool be glad too know. That grace has got nothing to do with alter rails nibbling. Grace is the way you throw out your arms and feet. Know kicking or flinging. Slide. A graceful glide is much admonished by people with a gentile nature. The best way to learn who to-glide. Is too watch an auld doll or an auld codger walking. Never lift your feet. Shuffle. Shuffle in a gentile gliding motion. And people wool say.
"See yon Rosie Ryan. 18 stone but she slides with the grace of a fairy".
Beauty, poise and grace. These three. But if you have poise and grace and do knot have beauty you are up shit creek without a paddle.
When I was a cuttie, I looked like a cub. I walked like a cub. I talked like a cub. But when I became a woman, I put cubbish things away.
My grate beauty should be seen through a glass-darkly. My radient presents is two much to take in for the kuman mind. Though I speak with the tongues of angels. Unless I speak of Arts and Kulture, I am but a sounding brass. A tinkling cymbal. An empty bucket being banged in front of a hungry calf at a rusty gait.
If you have it, flaunt it. If you don't have it, wear a mo-mo dress, keep your ugly gub cast down and hope for the best.
Some say that beauty is blind.
I say natterjacks and toadstools.
The eye of man, even the ugliest, humpiest wee nuck that every lived, is programmed to recognise grate beauty. When I strut down Clougher street. The word soon goes round. The pubs empty and groups of slack-arsed men stand and point at me.
They titter behind their hands and make jokes about big fat bags.
Compensating for their gauchness they blame she who allures them with a beauty bordering on inhuman and unnatural. 'Tis the price I have to pay. 'Tis the burden I have too carry.
With grate beauty comes grate responsibility. A wink of my eye. A crook of my little finger and half the men in Clougher would leave wives and wains and be sleeping rough round my haggard.
I know they fear me, even hate me. For I have a gravitational pull over their emulsions. "Oh why was I born so beautfull?" I shriek into my mirror in the dead of night.
Beauty, poise grace. These three. But if you have poise and grace and have knot got beauty, you have got the shitty end of the stick.
These three. Beauty, poise and grace I have in abundance.
Youse have bean listening too Rosie Ryan who is touched. TOUCHED by a beauty that is tarra too behold.
I leave you now, to empty po's and make a cup of tay.

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