...on yer man

...and on bobbing and weaving

"did ye see the fight last noight?"

"nah, rooney, how'd tyson do las' noight?"

"ah, yer man was bobbin' and weavin', it was grand"

"really, who'd he fight last night?", i check the girth on the saddle as he has since rooney didn't that fateful morning when the bastard shattered his nose against a tree.

"ee wuz fightin' francis boffa las' noight".

"boffa? i saw him fight once. that guy's a sucker."

"nah e wuzn't. yer man wuz bobbin' and weavin'."

this is a re-occuring conversation i have in my head every now and again. one of the things i think about as i cross town in the morning. bobbin' and weavin'. i think of how rooney would tell a story and whomever he was talking about was "yer man". i always found the irish way of telling a story to be one of the more difficult but rewarding ways to hear a story.

this morning it was way colder than the bastard needed it to be. it was headgear time and the bobbin' and weavin' was more frenetic than usual. you see, yer man bumped inta me, and aye decided not to trip yer man but then yer man lit up a cigarette and aye was in yer man's backwash and aye did nah like his brand so aye got outta yer man's way which apparently started a race down 33rd street between us. sure, it's damn pointless but it get's yer mind off of the cold for a few minutes. beats the hell out of freezing.

my cash money bet right now, winter's going to last until bloody may. dammit!

—the bastard