The morning I woke up and realised that I was Welsh

I woke up at eleven breathing like a spiky dragon,
feeling sheepish as I held aloft my morning menhir.
My tatty pants like Snowdon made me look just like a rag an’
boner man. I rose up out my pit, my black nadir
and took a leak which could’ve filled an Oktoberfest flagon
(more like Eisteddfod in the evening, when devoid of beer)
then carefully cleaned Caerphilly off my monolith, it saggin’.
“There’s something fishy guarding my behaviour, I fear,”
I pondered with a manic laugh and super furry belch
the morning I woke up and realised that I was Welsh.

I crawled along the stairway holding my budgerigar
and threw a few great lumps of coal on the electric fire.
It didn’t work! I had no way to light up my cigar,
so, by a neighbour’s shed I built a mountain of a pyre
and burnt his house down while he was out drinking at the baa.
He weren’t too pleased returning as the flames fleur-de-lysed higher.
I smoked and said, “It’s not unusual, boyo. Iachi Da!
Yur, have a fag!” He laughed, “You Welsh, there’s plainly no-one dryer!”
and rwgbi-tackled me with playful humour, zeal and relsh
the morning I woke up and realised that I was Welsh.

I’m lopping off superflous vowls that give me too much trouble,
poetic licence, isnit? I’m of Dylan Thomas stock,
except with all my surplus sounds I’m incwmprnswbl
and sound like Hannibal Lecter when choking on a sock.
“Ff-dd-ff-dd-ll-dd-ll-ffwdd,” consonants in double,
like fisticuffs with bigwigs pissed in Aberystwyth dock,
like bombs on Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwll-
llantysiliogogogoch, sound like a system-shock,
so though the vampires of English robbery still gobble
ambitiously for wads of dosh, we will force back the clock.
No longer will the Norman bugger lay us down and felch
the morning we wake up and realise that we are Welsh.