Written by Matt Brown

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Friday, 11 October 2013

That Budgie Harold of mine, forever drinking and all the time.

A squirt of whisky, a glug of Guinness it's surprise at all he's still here with us.

There he go a shouhy loud at regulare passer-by, shouby in the morning tide this budgie who imbibe.

But what else for a bird who sing and squawk and scream, we hang him by the lamppost bright and watch him gently dream.

God Harold, noddy and all soundly off to sleep, waiting with a waiting hand to bring you home for tea.

'Tis always sad round here now that Harold go, but is that him just now I hear yes burning on the stove.

(they ate it or something)

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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