A Sophisticated Lunch

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which was much appreciated by Eli Stagbutt who goes out each morning to count the four thousand holes in Blackburn Lancashire.
"Eeh!" said Eli. "That show has set me up for the day. If I were younger I would go to the foot of our stairs."
Then his moleskin trousers burst into flames and poor Eli was gutted before the fire brigade came,proving once again, never carry a cigarette lighter in your trouser pocket. How many more men must be burned to the ground before the message gets through?
Tommy my cat did a pirouette in his heavy, Winter,sheepskin ballet dress and said,
"Let's sit down to lunch, I'm starving. Piccalilli?"
"No thank you Tommy," I said, "I would rather pick my nose."
Lunch was a sophisticated, fashionable, Oscar Wilde affair.Fly ones were whizzing round the room like bullets. When the port was gone, we began to drink bottles of Starboard.
How I laughed when Tommy wittily commented,
"ME live in Ballymena? Frankly my dear,I would rather take up abode in the vast builder's crack on Tubby Nolan's massive bum."
"That's a cracker!" I shrieked. "A builders cracker!"
Then, like the wild Atlantic ocean,Tommy's mood changed. He put down his golden goblet of methylated spirits and said,
"Gerry and Sean never did find it."
"Find what?" I said. "The meaning of life? The lost chord, or Tubby Nolan's inside leg measurements?"
"The Bo-Weevil," said Tommy. "The elusive Bo-Weevil. The Scarlet Pimpernel of insects."
"The Bo-Weevil must have crawled into the fork of someone's trousers," I said.
"The naughty,little weevil likes to hide in cramped, hot nooks and crannies."
Tommy gave a shriek and yelled,
"That means Gerry or Sean are Bo-Weevil carriers. I must inform health minister Michael McGimpsey."
Which is why kid, you and Mr Coyle must lie in a designated field today, legs wide apart, eyes tight shut as a crop duster flies over you,spraying your forks with a lethal pesticide.
Oh Lordy, I sure does like to pick a bale of cotton.
Yes, siree Bob.
If that Bo-Weevil gets loose, there won't be a cotton boll left in Ulster.
(Hey kid, Play Bo-Weevil by Fats Domino. Fats co-wrote this song)