And no, not with lemon.
The exciting story has now finished, to be replaced with this little gem, under the heading of 'woodlot suggestible', from my old mate Rodolfo Thong (shortly to be appearing in an upcoming episode of Kats PI).
The scythe ran into a stone. Till the cows come home. The stronger the breeze the stronger the trees. Up a tree. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Strong as an ox. Rough as a cob. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Sweet as apple pie. Tastes like chicken. We'll hand you out to dry. Sour as a green apple. She's a nut. Till the cows come home. Up one side and down the other. Weed out. There is always next year. A tree does not move unless there is wind. So hungry I could eat a horse.
Wait and see. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Sick as a dog. Timber! Rough as a cob. Raking in the dough. Rough as a cob. Survival of the fittest. Sow much, reap much; sow little, reap little. Some like carrots others like cabbage. That's water under the bridge. The silly season. Wait and see. To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.Up one side and down the other. She's a nut. Welcome to my garden. Stop and smell the roses. You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. She's a mother hen. Thick as a brick. Sour as a green apple. That's a real stem winder. Schools out for summer. Stand your ground. Watered down. A weed is no more than a flower in disguise. Tools of the trade. Wrinkled as a prune.
Nice. I particularly like the bit about sticking it in my pipe and smoking it, though I'm slightly confused as to why anyone would ever want to gild gold. Surely it's gold enough already? But of course, I may just be a hopeless innocent when it comes to these things.
Nice of him to welcome me to his garden though. The sly dog.