Our Seneth Serene


                            Act One, Scene One

    Enter The Dame


Good morrow, one and all
I ask that thou’st not prate like ruttish harpys
I ask that thou’st open thine eyes, thine ears and thine hearts
Lest there not be a deficitium democraticus
(The Dame sitteth in a chair)
I take mine seat before me; a throne to a Queene
Now let us bear witness to Our Seneth Serene.

          Enter Carwynius, The Wood Faerie, Macbethan, Peter the Blogger,
RT Falstaff, Kirstylia, Edwæna Harte, Sir Leyton of Andrews, and Others.


I call upon Her Most Gracious Majesty Queene Elizabeth’s
Right Honourable Carwynius, First Lord of Pura Wallia.

CARWYNIUS (leaneth on lectern)

Lo! Some sayeth I be a slothish mammet
But I have the heart and stomach of a bin
And a bin of Wales too!


What rascal giveth free medicines to make the people love him?
Yet others wait in purgatory for blacksmith crafted hips.
There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune,
and more truth in thee than in a drawn fox!


Aye, I believe a crabby man and his imp
doth have hands where impolite conversation go.
And fromst thine other mouth,
A Waestminster treachery his ill winds and words sow.
Blow, winds! Crack your cheeks, rage blow!


For pity’s sake, sir. He who be asked questions answer questions not.


Hold thine tongue, or doth London holdst it for thou?
Tories, Tories, Tories!
I am a man more sinned against than sinning!


Fie, sirrah!
Were my sword unsheathed I wouldst thrust at thee,
thou saucy half-faced giglet!

THE DAME (Bangeth hand on table) :

Order, gentlemen! I shall have order in this place!

MACBETHAN (to Edwaena Harte):

OOOOOOOOO, from both corners of mine region, Aber and Avan….




….Little birds tweet to me whilst pages of the Book of Faces overflow….


Hmm. Hmm. Yeah.


….The forty-first portal from Hell be closed, taking money from guildsmen’s babes
Against thine stark callousness willst thou at long last answer the people’s woes?


Hmm. Well, tis all who tweeteth be the twayte?
Traffic floweth as honey from a laboured bosom or such a thing.
I willst writeth to thee later lady, I can no longer prate
Or giveth thee an answer presently.
I retire thus. Anon. (Exeunt).

KIRSTYLIA (to Carwynius) :

Shall I compare thee to a sack of spuds?
Thou art more dumpy and unrepentant.
They say rough winds threaten to throw us out on our butts,
Perhaps I return’st to being a library attendant?


Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Take pride, madam. We are most grateful for your extra guineas
for the huddled wretches and their schooling. I thank thou such.
But do not misunderstand m’lady, we willst take the plaudits for it.

 THE WOOD FAERIE (to Carwynius):

There be much prateing of exits,
but thou doth produce the matter of a bovine one.
We wisheth that the people see past their centuries brain fog
And take a Wood Faerie for Wallia’s Preeve Whinydog.

(to Sir Leyton of Andrews)

Easier said than done. Tis true that they sayeth
‘Labour shall never vanquished be,
Until Bridge End to Rontha, and Cardiff to Vale
Shall come against him.’


Thou hast mine map!? God’s teeth!
The tartness of thy face sours ripe grapes.
It matters not, however, for thine party be cheap to court, madam.


Thou art a scurvy knave, thou art!


Anonymous. (Exeunt)


To blog, or not to blog:
That is the question.
(Peter bloggeth)
‘Felis catus, is your taxonomic nomenclature,
An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature….’

KIRSTYLIA (under breath) :

God’s death.

PETER THE BLOGGER (startled) :

What arse through yonder window breaks?

Enter Puckip

La! Ra! La!
What goeth on here in Taffydom?
(Puckip maketh noise of the fart)
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
Thoust do so with crosses in the wrong box.


Be gone now right now! Ye belong here not – in politic or person.


Across this England, methinks the people disagree.
And we will take a seat from thee, and thee and thee.
Whether it be in Cardiff or the City of Sprouts,
Given a pound of flesh and expenses accounts,
We willst believe anything while our coin purses engorge.
Cry God for Bess the Second, Nigel and St George!
(Pukip maketh noise of the fart again)

RT FALSTAFF (to Puckip):

A point well made, sir. Better out than in.