This one's rubbery and inflatable, perhaps I'll just blow inside the hole. The sheep expanded and exploded with a mighty bleet alerting watchful corgi with his tail. The corgi sang a woefull song. Drenching the hills the rains came with Brains Bitter. Brains bitter for bitter corgis and their tails wearing Welsh Wellies and checkered shawls; with the dragon leading the way...
So it began! The story of zombi cathod mawr... covered in mud from head to toe with their little known secret language! Unfathomable "ll"s littered with "FFs" following. Well, I'll be needing a dictionary from Dai Ram before this is translated into another mess from which nothing but swahili could decipher it with the exception of wenglish possibly or maybe klingon. This needed a bigger, better book with more vowels to open up... a clever llyfr. 'The Speaking Book' explained the mystery by telling tales of kitty tails in lovely Wales. When Sion Cwilt closed the book he finally understood why he was married to Myfanwy the preacher's daughter. She could read the Kama Sutra and Reader's Digest in one day while horse riding and sitting backwards, spurs in reverse, with his shackles like the sea calling him home to his cottage in Abertonllwyd Street.
Whilst on honeymoon, Geraint the cat was distracted by a poetic mouse called Minnie. From this mouse muse near Tonyrefail in August, Geraint learned how to pass wind in public and accuse dog Pero the Corgi of farting. Instead, Corginistas were born. How were they? Where’s my collie gone to now? Behind the cat? Upon the mat, where he sat? The collie barked at the cat; the cat spat and started singing a strange song containing large crotchets and some quavers (about a saucepan filled with semiquavers and hugechords) and many-colored goats. The cat said, “Now look goat!!! Stop singing and eating quavers.” "Okay," goat answered, “take a break from flogging mice! Instead, I will recite a poem whilst setting the netting around my buxom wench, with her fantastic knowledge of poetry: ‘Under the spreading . . . of her neat chestnut tree . . .’
”Then, with a blinding insight into American foreign diplomatic arguments, he raised his thick right eyebrow and fell over dead! Thus ended his affair with the modern world; becoming goat cheese with some morsels of hot pepper on toast. Points towards the extraordinary flavoured goat’s cheese moral of the masticated mouse moment story! 'Who wins?' Geraint certainly doesn't. The wine flowed. Like Thomasina, he stretched his tongue and licked his plate which was closer than his favorite can of condiments. "You...stop! Or I'll hammer holes in cat-food”.
Thus it ended, with the hammer poised to crash on cat-tail bones. A flesh-eating slug purring contentedly ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.Rats in Pain, still charging onwards at sluggish pace ran down by. A huge mouse with afterburners ignited, charged toward Geraint -with tail erect, gimlet eyes glitt'ring, little rat teeth ready to nibble at little oysters (Geraint's 'privates', euphemistically) seasoned with special crisp pepper. Cayenne! That's so hot -as bad as Paris Hilton's porno movie about pussies, Tom and Jerry!
That’s all Folks!
updated by @ceri-shaw: 12/11/15 09:15:35PM
