Coallie Wabbles

Them tap-cats an' unnerdogs maun hae their day in day oot wi' every tam cat an' hairy scrabbin behin the dorr forto get in if the're oot an' oot if the're in an' whaniver the're gran' oul Dukes neither. HMV gien the doag tha Buik o Rules fortae lairn him it's no for eatin nor spoartin wi. Fetch a pail o water - is there no a man Jack o ye can read wi'oot me rhymin on? Bring the bucket then guid boy an lee the buik alane for ye'll dae mair hairm nor guid. Daft doags an the Inglis man maun dae their roons door tae door wi nae en in sicht barrin their daily breid. Youse cannae unnerstan the buik sae jist give ear an' dae whut ye're bid.

Manx Factor for men-o-war

Cat o eight tails, whippin up troubled waters. Mann dear, ye shud a let that Africa wumman lie, lie low on the Strangford shore. A' washed up, and naewhere to go. Thanks be and in twa shakes of a lamb's tale up be John an a bigged abbie . O course-he had a han in it an a'. John Doe, the land factor, state agent for oul biggings floggin a deid horse yet, factorin in unreal estate an floggin naethin ava til the sweat's drippin. The land-blubber lard o Greba has him in a half-hairted Nelson under his oxter. The reek o stalemeat wud choke ye. I cudn't say that the Manx Factor's just the dab. It wud take a wee drap o the Scotch to sell it tae the tourists noo, or tug-a-way on the bus tae the Bush.

Grebarish Allsorts

A. Janus, the two-faced skitter-ma-loo tip-keyed uup into Sanctus Boscus ony to find it empy of all reg . This bloker is hunting his other half-crown. Heads or Harps, I'm bordered with it all. The big yin RIP. Outspannin all ithers, Shannon-doh, I love yer holy water, roll on de odour and row for the shore. Is yer heid craic'd? Talkin a'sorts o Grebarish. The X-Factor wudn't let him vote, just for the crack.
May-day. Dear help ye, here yin day and gone the next. B. Janus, ye're a' the same. I don't know if ye're cumin or goin.