A conversation, in the vicinity of Shap Fell on the M6:
“By ‘eck, they’re hardy sheep up here.”
“They must be. Some of them look pretty fat, though.”
“Does that make them lardy hardy sheep?”
“I guess it does.”
…
“You know the way they baa — do you think they’re telling each other stories?”
“That would make them lardy hardy bardy sheep.”
“Quite.”
…
“Some of them look a bit fed up, don’t you think?”
“You mean — lardy hardy bardy mardy sheep?”
“Exactly.”
…
“Hey, those just scampering up the fell to join the others!”
“They’re late, huh?”
“Yes, they’re…”
“Lardy hardy bardy mardy tardy sheep?”
“Yes!”
…
“Can we stop now?”
“I think we’d better.”
Baaaa, that’s lambentable, if not a little sheepish. Although I really don’t know what the flock yew’re talking about, it’s all a little wooly!