Irish Eyes: King Henry's Feast

A bowl of fruit, good for your bowels. Still life of a bowel full of fruit. In the life giving rain that is good for your skin. Ah my little chiquita, bonita, apples from the south of France. Sunshine and sunflowers, cold pressed virgins shivering, expecting alms, an olive branch.

The nuts of quercus alba, digested by the rich Irish soil, sending forth little tendrils of the mighty, shady oak. Chopped down, turned on a lathe. The magic tree turned into a salad bowl, full of fruit. On an oak table King Henry feasted at.

But that is history. The preserve of jams, saints, scholars. For something longer lasting try to remember everything that happened - yesterday.

Ladies, having trouble attracting men? Put a red light in your window. Feng Shui masters rearranging hospital orderlies to cure the sick. At heart.

My friend said of the clouds, its like a thousand galloping horses storming over a hill. He was serious, not me.

Are you? Happy to..., do you go down? Is George Dubya good in the scratcher? Who do you think might know, and how would we find out? Passion or compassion. Compassion fruit that tastes as good as you look.

A begging bowl full of pennies, in the rain, shivering cold pressed junkies, digested by the rich, look at me I shite money, no sewer big enough for these healthy bowels.

Still that is life in the giving rain.

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