We don’t mind if we couldn’t spell, or use proper grammar. We could talk. We did talk (in our own language).
And we told tales, and if the townsfolk didn’t like it, so what? We looked after our own; yes, our own asses. I am proud to be a Claddagh Ass. We survived, and we watched them come and go. Where are they now – those that mocked? In the New York smog, or Boston slums; or drinking dewdrops from the mountain, and eating salmon from the Fiddann? We wish them well. They probably wish they never kicked a Claddagh ass.