Poetry and Profits

"With peepers two, I view the view
And relay my peeping back to you".
What a lovely stan-za that is. It was rote in 1678 by the Earl of Clougher, Red Ned Hannigan to his mistress, or bit on the side Maggie Strumpbucket.
While knot condoming adultry, I am struck by the love made mainifest in them too lines.
Alas, the illicict love affair ended in tragedy.
Red Ned was thrown off his horse while out hunting weasels and hit his head a dunt on a stone that split his skull and scattered his branes all over the Hi-way.
Poor Maggie was broken-hearted. She went into decline and took her own life in 1681 by drinking a potion of hemlock, dockens and frogs-spawn.
As a well kown strumpet of Hi-renown poor Maggie was buried in unconcertinaed ground.
Red Ned Hannigan was buried after Hi-mass in saint Judas graveyard. You can still sea his aged, mossy tombstone and just make out his last too line stan-za, written prophlyactily before his death.
"I wonder what will make me dead?
Will it be a splitting of my head?"
He may have bean a dirty auld brute, but when it came to poetry, Red Ned was a cracker.
Above the rutting of the dear, the cawing of the crows and the bleating of the heatherbleat I heard the sound of my sun Bon Jovi, the lite of my life and my raisen de'etra
There he stood at the haggard in all his glory. Two candles hanging from his nose assured me that his sign-us-us were firing on all cylinders.
His knees were grazed, wan sock hung over his hobnailed boot, his burgundy gansy was ripped and tore, his fork was wet, but the cub would grow out of that.
There he stood. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. Guts of my guts.
The fruit of my ferrite lions.
My sun, my cub, my gift to civilization.
I clasped the lump of a cub to my panting bisum and said.
"Bon Jovi where has't thou bean?
Thou knowest that I worry when thou goes wandering in the wildernest".
Bon Jovi looked up at the sky, like a profit who could sea straight into heaven and said.
"I have bean-thinking. Always-thinking.
Wool my grate brane never give me rest? Am I cursed to go through life like John the Baptist?
A cub crying in the bog,
"Wool you'se stap you'll auld sinnin' "
In my head is all the knowledge in the world and yet I can not utterise it.
I am as a sounding brass and a honking horn. WHY ME?" screamed the cub. "WHY ME?"
Why have I bean chosen to lead the world and surrounding districts to the pearly gaits of heaven?"
"Oh Bon Jovi" I cried.
"What can I your humble savent do to help you fulfill your heavely mission?"
As if in a trance, Bon Jovi said.
"Put on your sandels and go to Clougher. There, outside auld Niko McSkitterstein's house you will find a donkey. Untie that donkey and bring him to ME!".
Full as a po with the holy spirit I did as the cub commanded.
Next day too police cars full of peelers came flying into my yard and arrested me for stealing a donkey!
Bon Jovi denied all knowledge of the affair and told the police I had often talking about nicking a donkey.
The wee ugly, humpy, coniving, gulpin had conned me into stealing the donkey.
I know Bon Jovi has the donkey secreated somewhere in the bog.
I have to appear in Clougher court next weak.
The people of Clougher were all for hanging me from an oak tree.
Donkey stealing is scene in Clougher as a henious crime.
If I am scent to the slammer I wool do my time, but on my release I will swing for the spawn of the devil who took up abode in my good, cat-lick womb.
Prey for me. Prey for Rosie Ryan who is accused of ass theft.