This is Paddy O'Micron. He lives under that rickety old bridge between the town and the green pastures on the hillside. It is where our animals fatten themselves in the summertime and where I have enjoyed many a happy picnic. I may have seen you frolicking there.
It is reported that Paddy O'Micron has been scaring the be-jabbers out of folk who cross "his" bridge which was in fact built by the town council.
He shouts up, "Who's that criss-crossing my bridge?"
The other day, I yelled back, "It's me, the great big Yorkshire Pudding! I'm going up the hillside to lie in the lush green grass. Maybe I will write a poem about a treehouse or a leprechaun who lived under a rickety old bridge!"
And Paddy O'Micron yelled back, "Well oim a nasty leprechaun and oim going to eat you for my supper!"
But when his ugly old head appeared above the parapet of the bridge, he caught sight of me with my muscular bulk and thought better of his murderous threat. He retreated to his dank and shadowy hollow like a cowardy custard.
All I am saying here is beware of Paddy O'Micron if you happen to cross "his" bridge. His appetite is rumoured to be insatiable and he's out to get us all. It is further rumoured that his cousins Pi, Rho and Sigma will soon be paying very unwelcome visits. Such jolly capers we shall have.