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Now Paddy and Murphy were two Irish men
Who went to the market one day
They had a look round and saw pigs in a pen
For two they decided to pay
Well, on the way home with the pigs in the ute
Paddy turned to young Murph with a start
"When we get them back home, although they look cute
How will we tell them apart?"
Quick as a flash Murph stopped on the road
And jumped in the back with the swine
He bit off one's ear and his face it just glowed
"At least I will know that one's mine!"
Paddy leapt in the back and did the same thing
And the other poor pig gave a squeal
Then Murph bit its tail and it let out a wail
This treatment just did not appeal!
Paddy said "Come on Son," he spoke from the heart
"Perhaps it will make it all right
Until we can see how to tell them apart
The black pig is yours, mine's the white!"
At the other end of the travel writing spectrum is that old war horse travel writer Dervla Murphy. She’s unfashionable amongst the barely literate great unwashed because she focuses on the truth and...
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'On a lighter note:
A few months back.....
I met a 35 year old American Red Indian called Eric ? ( yeh! Eric, so what ? many indians are called Eric, 'shuttup.)
He even had a single eagle's feather...
Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,...
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Thank you Zooropa, I haven't read any Walter de La Mare for years, and yet he was my first favourite poet too.
I shall take great pleasure in renewing his acquaintance. 8)
: good one Wiz 
Experience is not what happens to you;
