vineri, 30 august 2013

The broody brock (an almost Sussex dialect poem)

A broody brock was sitting in the sun
He hasn’t done a dezzick since he was born.
Still, he done something all right: he drove amakin everyone all-on.
He kept bawling at the bedhead stone
Begridging about a beggar’s knees he saw,
On birds wedding day last year.
As big as a mammoth trump it was…
A regular treat to billus about.
And every day and every night the birchet biled
Of his rather bettermost find.
But one day a brady leaves smell fell in the air,
It was our brencheese friend who could not anymore bare.
The purple rabbit arrived as fast as he could brish.
“Heard about this brock in the woods
Who is botchy at boulder-boats and boulder-heads.
I! I am brave and I be the bozzler round this pekid times.”
“Yeah… yeah! But I be making a pawn of money in a porn of this times!”
The rabbit in a rush lathered the brock to the ground
The brock gave the rabbit the latten bells to the head
And so they went all on it the ensuing battle.
Until the mortacious blow was delivered.
The moral one of this misagreed mizmazed tale is so unfit
Cause, you see, the bear had a great weekend and all he could eat.

joi, 29 august 2013

L’ éthylisme a disparu!

Parole d’honneur! Parole d’honneur mon chou!
Il est discutable, oui, mais certainement est une fatalité!
La dame-jeanne ici grogne qu’elle a la perceptibilite,
Un doux-penser que ne fait pas du courage cette étté:
Tous avons la pépie! L’ éthylisme a disparu!