Take a look at this. It makes a nice change from
The Dubliners, and it got me thinking.
Suppose a little man in a green hat jumped out
from the hedgerow one of these nights and said ‘So, me fine young fella (little
people are very old, you know) as a reward for singin’ nicely to us on yer
nocturnal perambulations, ya may have one o’ them Corr sisters to take home and
keep by ya through yer dotage. She will attend to the totality of yer needs,
and I mean the totality. She will so.
Which one will ya choose? And be quick about it, because the poteen is evaporatin’
as I speak, so it is, it is… (as me old
mother used to say.)’
I studied the video carefully. I decided that the
percussionist is the sexiest, the whistle player the prettiest, and the fiddler
the most beautiful. (The pianist doesn’t count, of course.) The first would
undoubtedly precipitate a heart attack within twenty four hours at most, the
second would probably run off with some young buck half my age, so I’m going
for the fiddler.
All I have to do now is wait.
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