A rough and weathered Kerry farmer pulled the rope leash that harnessed a black faced sheep.
With razor rain pelting his weather- leathered sixty-five year old vissage, the rough rustic Moses pulled the baying and bleating Ovis Bovidae to and manfully through the green painted door of his one room cottage on the lee-ward side of the hill that crowned his farm. The last embers of turf glowed a gold-smoky hue to the spartan room with walls adorned with framed photos of JFK, RFK, MLK and Bono.
From the thick woolen blankets and home-spun covers of the queen-sized bed, came the voice of his bride of thirty-two years, " Pissed are ye?"
Pulling himself to the full 65" majesty of his agarian frame, our peat-digging yeoman retorted," This is the cow . . .that I am having sex with!"
There was somewhat of a pause. Had years of drink and labor destroyed the once careless and song-slinging swain who had charmed and conquered her heart with this revelation of madness?
"You've a skinfull of Poitín and porter - that's a sheep you amadaun!"
The woolly creature cowered and the sheep was taken aback, as well. After a pause of some seconds the Culchee villein spat back, " I was talking to the mutton, so!"
Ah, as Catullus lyred -Qvearis, quot mihi basiationes tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque. . . .
From the file of Mr. Gerry O'Carroll