Just a little dissertation upon one side of a sorry holiday season. The scene is a police court; and Constable O’X testifies as follows:
The Ayster was wit, as yer Anner my know it; But jooty is jooty, I couldn’t forgo it. So the mob in the dock wid the woebegone faces Is fruits of me zale in a dozen odd places. The first won, yer Anner, is kane on the cricket Who tells me he’s battin’ upon a wit wicket, An’ sits in the mud sinkin’ noggins uv gin But I cudn’t sthand that, so I roon the mahn in. The second yer Anner, is mad as a hatter, For he sings in the rain where it comes spitter-spatter, An’ plays a dumb choon on his wit tinnis racket. An’ him in white sand-shoes an’ yella striped jacket, No trousers at all, save a pair av short knickers; A choschoom outfacin’ the shickest av shickers. An’ him in flood wather near up to his chin. But I cudn’t sthand that; so I roon the mahn in. The nixt wan, yer Anner, is mad for the hockey, Dhressed half like a haythen an’ half like a jockey. “They’re under the mud!” he sez, “Hit for the bubble!” I batoned his bane an’ he gave me no throuble. The nixt is a fisherman. Shure he was ravin’ Out there in the deluge –- offensive behavin’! “Dry-fly sishin’!” he yells; an’ him soaked to the skin. But I cudn’t sthand that; so I roon them both in. If the Binch will belave me, they’re all av a feather; Some twinty-odd crazy min up there together, All sportsmin an’ athlicks bamboozled an’ chayted For rain thro’ the holidays niver abated. So, in view of the wetness I recommend laynience; For Aysters so damp is a great inconvaynience. They had brains av a sort till the wethers got in; So I upheld me offis be roonin’ thim in.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|