Politicians looking for votes.

Great show yesterday Kid. When the great show was over,thousands of people flocked on to the street,to skip,dance,gambol and build a large Wicker man for Mr Coyle. Mr Coyle's support for the cult of Thunder Thighs is causing great concern from both Taigs and Prods.
The other night,or was it back in medieval times,I was sitting, reading the Dead Sea Scrolls by candle light and fighting an over-whelming desire, to turn to the last page to see who done it. Suddenly,YES!it was that quick,Tommy my cat rode in on a hobby horse dressed as Sir Prance-a-lot.
"Man the barricades!" yelled Tommy. "An ugly mob is heading this way."
"Aardvarks and abbreviations!" I cried,as I grabbed my Swiss army knife and prepared to defend my condemned hovel. I faced the ugly mob. Oh, their ugliness knew no bounds. I averted my eyes. Their awful ugliness was burning the retinas out of my eyes.
"Who are you," I yelled,"and what do you want?"
"We are politicians," they roared, "and we want votes!"
Then,little Jeffrey Donaldson climbed up on a wheelie bin and yelled,
"What do votes bring?"
"MONEY!" cried the ugly mob.
"Tommy," I yelled,"is Mike Nesbitt among this nasty gaggle of gasbags?"
"NO!" cried Tommy.
"DARN!" I yelled to the small blonde dwarf who was mending my socks.
"I wanted to send a knitting pattern to Lynda Byrons,for a heavy, hessian swimsuit as worn by Woody Harrelson and the Dali Lama's younger brother Eugene.
What do you have to offer?" I roared.
"CHANGE!" they bleated like sheep.
"My pockets are full of change," I cried. "What else is on offer?"
"Free air miles!" cried Jeffrey Donaldson. "If you are a Catholic,the DUP will pay for a one way ticket to Dublin."
I looked at the Alliance candidate,who was standing in the middle of the road and said,
"And what have you to offer by proud beauty?"
The alliance candidate stood there in his hair shirt and yelled,
"I can offer you nothing but blood, sweat and tears!"
"DONE!" I yelled,spitting on my hand and rubbing it on Sir Reg Empry's golden locks.
With the blood I shall make a black pudding. With the sweat I shall lubricate Tubby Nolan's oxters. And with the tears I shall cry when Ashley Peacock is turfed out of Coronation Street.
ASHLEY! Do you hear me? I say, do you hear me?
It's your dead uncle Fred. I say, it's your dead uncle Fred.