Who knows with the Welsh what is real or a figment in their fragmented imagination and whether an imaginary reincarnation of Cwmdonkin Drive or Gossamer Beynon's little ginger man in a brown paper bag can be classified as a suitable case for treatment?
... so... you mean... when Gossamer Beynon
daintily ferrets under a fluttering hummock of chicken's feathers in a slaughterhouse that has chintz curtains and a three-pieced suite, and finds, with no surprise, a small rough ready man with a bushy tail winking in a paper carrier it's really just member SwanKni
Good Grief Richard. For a man of Abertawe to come up with a reply after lengthy 11 minutes seems to reveal the fact that you had to consult your Dylan rather than knowing it off by heart!!
Of course, what I do love about Gossamer is she don't care if he is common. (she whispers in her salad day deep self)
I don't care if he does drop his aitches,
He's all cucumbers and hooves
And Sinbad the Sailor watches her go by, blazed naked past the Sailors Arms and wonders "Why are you so proud"
Sorry? Swanknight? How did he come into it? What torture is this that you are trying to introduce him into my day dreams? Gossamer's father springheeling down the street with a finger, but not his finger, in his mouth is bad enough.
