Roedd hi wedi bod yn noson galed. Wrth ymyl y biniau, oedd Dewi Sant yn cysgu’n sownd, â llwyth o boteli o’i gwmpas. Roedd ‘na gwstard ym mhobman, a phan ddihunodd Daf y gath, gwelodd e Santes Dwynwen yn rhwygo nicars, un pâr ar ôl y llall. Roedd hi’n amlwg ei bod hi’n dal wedi meddwi.
– Be’ ‘ti ‘neud? gofynnodd Daf.
– Rhwygo nicars fi, atebodd Santes Dwynwen, yn aneglur.
– Dim ond rhwygo dy nicars?
– Ydw.
– Ond y teitl… we fi’n meddwl…
– Dw i ond yn rhywgo nicars fi. Jyst… nicars.
Gyda hynny, syrthiodd Santes Dwynwen i lawr.
– Reit, meddai Daf, wrth i Franz Kafka ymddangos, yn chwifio selsigen.
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Saesneg / English
Ripping Knickers
It had been a hard night. Beside the bins, Saint David was sleeping soundly, surrounded by bottles. There was custard everywhere, and when Dave the cat awoke, he saw Saint Dwynwen ripping knickers, one pair after another.
– What you doing? asked Dave.
– Ripping my knickers, answered Saint Dwynwen, slurring.
– Just ripping your knickers?
– Yes.
– But the title… I thought…
– I’m only ripping my knickers. Just… knickers.
With that, Saint Dwynwen fell over.
– Right, said Dave, as Franz Kafka appeared, waving a sausage.
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