Geraint went to his father Jones the Sheep and said ‘Come by here, look you; I’m leaving the valley and I want my share.’ He gave a tidy sum to his boyo, who Gwent out of Llanfairfechan faster than you can say blast furnace. Ach y fi [1].
Geraint frittered the cash on beer and babes, isn’t it? He didn’t look after the money very Caerphilly. Famine struck the Vale of Aberystwyth and he had to go and care for porkers, which were eating leeks, daffodils and Llanberis.
He cursed ‘Oh, Blanau Ffestinniog!’
Eventually, his head had a rrrrevival [2], and he decided to go bach to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysilio-goggoch, preparing a speech that was rather slummocky.
But his father saw him while he was still a long way Offa. Look you, he ran to him and gave him a ring, sandals, a robe and killed the calf, whose stomach was Rhondda than it had been before, isn’t it? He threw a right shindig, with the local Male Voice Choir and everything. Oh, there’s lovely! Father said ‘My son was dead, but now he’s alive again, surely to goodness! Shoulders back, lovely boy.’
[1] traditional Welsh expression of disgust; literally: ‘Don’t lick your fingers until you’ve washed your hands, isn’t it, Blodwin, there’s nasty’ or something similar
[2] traditional rolled r or alveolar trill: voiced oral vibrations of the tongue against the alveolar ridge while the vocal cords are also vibrating
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