I feel a kinship with old Italian things. I’ve always been a bit of a Rome antique.
When Romeo called to her on the balcony, Juliet knew he was a ledgeable bachelor.
My sister is marrying an organ thief. She says she wants a man after her own heart, someone who can de-liver her from her troubles, and who’ll take care of her two little kidneys after she’s gone.
As for me, I married a woman who had her face surgically removed. For love no nose limits.
If the Blarney Stone were a man, would kissing it make me Gaelic?