.
After the match Geraint spied Natasha eyeing his kilt. A passing seagull swerved drunkenly and crashed into the cold, aluminum railing emptying its lunch in Natasha's handbag fouling the detonator just as Geraint brandished his sword vivisecting the seagull. .
"Seagull souffle tonight! Natasha. Join me?" .
But Natasha wasn't an adventuresome damsel. So she declined enraging him to white heat. Grabbing a nearby sixpack he stumbled backward cursing when he fell into the cheese string maker bursting his cans. He slurped beer from the sidewalk where someone had dropped their wallet and also dropped a red hankerchief. Natasha stooped to steady her gunnels and nice gunnels they were too. Then she shook the stringcheese maker's trumpet.Great pink socks he had stuffed down his plump wibbly wellies. Geraint suddenly remembered he was undercover and concealed his big red dragon under his trenchcoat while staring at Natasha's fine gunnels. Suddenly the cheeseman popped his cork. .
"My birthd ay suit needs a severe overhaul with a precious baby's hug and . . . " she said: "Ahhh, poor baby, cheese, beer, soufflée! Let me fix your bicycle tire; the bottom's flat on Cardigan corracle." Natasha began to pump it up and he screamed: "It's gonna blow like Semtex!" .
However, Dai held Myfanwy. His rubber broke close to his ear deafness ensued. In short order came eggs, bacon. He held his paper plate up, pushing past Patricia: "More please sir, this has too many plums perforce", Patricia said. "Chew them well, boy; plump and chewy like my gunnels!". .
Steady, lad and quit referencing gunnels. Refer to hers. Exploding with might, it was so devastating to know plums packed powerful like powder kegs turning into black mist of cloud; mists of time and, suddenly, a mighty thunder clap woke the cheeseman who shouted out, "I have to make my cheeses stringier to compete in tomorrow's National Food festival competition; to win the 'Smelly Foot' cup (Mickey Mouse trophy) to make peace with my countrymen and the other naysayers who said Worra Bob Hope. Road to Zanzibar, Bing in bling, Fred in red and other nonsense such as the the George Cross poor cross George. .
Cross eyed George cried all night, then as dawn broke Geraint the Dragon sneezed on George . . . swine flu germs, directly from Mexico! Snot shot everywhere covering George with uchafi and other disgusting dangly detritus. So, there started a sing song of Welsh hymns and goat counting fervor whilst eating cheese in Abertridwr sauce with Pontlottyn pilau. Such a feast; finished in Llanbradach with the Dragon full of pudding. He climbed over Caerphilly mountain with a big turtle up his jumper, and a Pontypridd milkmaid on his ‘you know what’ pulled out a multitude of wet and dry sandpaper and gently rub bed his Welsh oak walking stick until . . . until a smile of sheer satisfaction crossed his mouth. He then proceeded to rub some beeswax into his oak and mahogany. A rash started. "Fetch the doctor and bring a sexy nurse quickly to rub in my oozing . . . " .
Badly constructed sentence? Then start by running cool water over your vowels and an alliterate prescription promptly prescribed with wonderful Welsh and all aquiver massage medication manfully with wet wipes until uncle's ukulele played Patricia’s piece. . . twangs terminology tunefully, zzzz......
zzzz...... zzzz...... songs sap spirits evoking elementary epochs. During Dai's daring . . . Enough everyone, enough! Edward, ever enjoyed Dil, don't dally . . . philately, phonetics, philandering with Welsh women finally feeling friendly . . . “Can someone concentrate?” enquired Dai's uncle.Dai: "Beat it, or else I'll...rub your nose call your mam!” .
Thus it ended. Much to Dai's chagrin, he wailed, "But you can't lose that loving . . . that hiraeth feel ing like losing your . . . sense of purpose, up Natasha's skirt; a feeling like . . . " A creature stirred when he recovered. .
Then the Reverend Eli Jenkins prayed: "Lord, give me two stand tickets or Natasha's body butter. And I will cover (completely) myself in shame!” Not only that, but in conclusion, the moral of this saga is always remember to wear your drawers with Celtic pride and just say, "Cymru am byth". .
updated by @ceri-shaw: 12/07/15 11:49:02PM
