(no subject)

"Mae bys Meri-Ann wedi brifo,
A Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach.
"Mae'r baban yn y crud yn crio,
A'r gath wedi scrapo Joni bach.
Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tân,
Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr,
A'r gath wedi scrapo Joni bach.

Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
A gwt ei grys e mas.

Mae bys Meri-Ann wedi gwella,
A Dafydd y gwas yn ei fedd;
Mae'r baban yn y crud wedi tyfu,
A'r gath wedi huno mewn hedd.
Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tân
Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr
A'r gath wedi huno mewn hedd."

He almost falls flat on his face, but the leather sleeve of the rugby jacket catches on a doorknob and keeps him from doing so. "I can't sing. Stan't king. And also can't walk." The streets, darker than they should be because they do have streetlamps, it's just they're not partic... partic... par... very bright tonight, are suddenly things full of peril. Hotpoles and tree sumps -- stumps -- and cacked croncrete and I definitely shouldn't have had that past lint.

Last pint.

Nights like this ought not to happen any more often than they do. Fortunately there's a door here he needs; he opens it with a crash. "They think so much about me that they always play without me!"

No, still can't sing. As he makes his way -- stumbles his way -- into the castle, he falls over the chair and his foot catches on the stool and it flies across the room.

No harm done, but he can't get upstairs by going either through the broom cupboard or the door to the yard and that's a little bit puzzling. There has to be a way here somewhere... ah, stairs.

Next thing he knows, he's lying up the stairs, face down.

Blast.