Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Men Languish At My Feet

Deer Jelly, how devine in the extreeme to heer your dulct tones guldering out of the wireless. I hope all your kith and kin are fair jumping with good health and bon-a-me. Me, myself in the singular and my sun Bon Jovi are bright eyed and bushy tailed. Over the years, due to the passing of time, Bon Jovi has grown up into a big lump of a cub. To sea him tear after the donkey in the lower pasture brings joy to a mothers hart. Bon Jovi, was deceived when I was on honymoon in Bundoran. But he was born in Clougher. Clougher, as you know has a long history for producing scholars, ack-a-demics and wild smart boys. In the fullness of time, Bon Jovi, wool astonish the people of Clougher and surrounding districts with his knowledge of sums, speling and his obsessive compulsion to find the source of dark matter in the universe and cure ringworm on a donkey's bum. The cub is like a terrier. When he gets his teeth into the eratic orbits of Juputer, or why wasps are attracted to jam he wool neither eat or sleep. I, myself am as beautiful as ever. Nature has been kind to me. Bestowing a Rubenesque figure and two, big bleezing, red cheeks. Men languish at my feet, like lurcher dogs. I dainty step over them with poise and grace literally oozing out from every pore. I am the eeh-pit-a-may of feminity. A goddess in kuman form. Everywhere I go I see the mad scrawlings of love sick men on bridges and gable walls. "Hi Rosie, are you up for it"? "Rosie, how wood you like to hang your pants over the same chair as me?" "Rosie, I like your dumplings" Just this morning, a love note was pushed threw the bottom of my door. Written on cardboard with green pen it stated. "My hart is sighing, for Rosie Ryan Venus dee-Milo, of the bogs Oh walk with me, under scented tree And sea me feed my wee, pink hogs". A sole in torment there, me thinks. Butt, marriage is out of the question before Bon Jovi, is strolling under the cloistered towers of Oxford. Where he will emerge, like a butterfly, as a nuclear scientist, or a bus driver. Goodbye Jelly. If things had bean different, who nose. You could have had your feet under my table and the hollow of your head on my pillow. I close with a Kay-Me-a Fault-yah and a nil desperando. Some day, the fates may entwine us in la-more. Your friend and konfident, Mrs Rosie Ryan xxx

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