it's grim up t'irish midlands

Morning at the Mannah organic food store in Kilcullen.
I approach my feminist cousin Pauline who is behind the counter sorting through a stack of unwashed Seamus Heaney poems or something.
I am all smiles.
"Pauline," sez me, "I've got a garden full of gooze gogs and I reckon if you gave me the right price I could keep your shop supplied over the Summer. They're all hand reared gooze gogs Missus. Guaranteed no rabies. Feel the quality. Cheap at the price."
"Sorry James," quoth she, "we have more gooze gogs than we can handle."
Somewhat deflated I leave the shop.
I gotta tell ya folks. It's going to be a hard year for the gooze gog growers.
I pause beside the poetry blackboard that Pauline has placed on the exterior of Mannah.
It still reads:
"Wag more,
Bark less."
Using my finger to erase and adjust the chalk, I alter the letters in the third world.
A few deft strokes and it stands corrected.
The poetry blackboard now reads:
"Wag more,
Fart less."
Somewhat mollified I return to a world indifferent to the fate of organically reared gooze gogs.
Not young and not renewable but man.