Once upon a time, there was a dragon in Cardiff that chewed shamrock for desert, and spat the roughage out.
He lived on daffodils for breakfast, and cultivated leaks in fields down the Gower.
He was deadly when it came to barbecuing white puddings from Kerry and rashers from Offaly.
When he was hungry, he masticated mouthfuls of minced Irish rugby players during the first half, and farted on substitutes throughout the second half.
He was a champion without doubt.
It never crossed his mind to mend his ways. He wasn’t afraid of Saint Patrick nor the snakes.
His nightcap was cawl, and he slept with a fresh leak under a pillow stuffed with goose feathers.
Evil spirits didn’t bother him.