Slyri - Mentrau Daf y Gath

Un tro, ymddangosodd Prif Weinidog Lloegr yn yr ardd. Gadewch i ni’i alw ef yn “Joris Bonson” gan oedd hwnnw bron ei enw. Fel mochyn penfelen yr oedd e, yn anllatgras ac yn angharedig. Ciciodd Keith y gwrden druan, ac yr oedd ar fin ceisio sediwsio’r Frenhines Branwen yn ei ddull seimllyd, pan heriodd Daf y lwmpen erchyll.

– Cer o ‘ma, meddai Daf y gath, yn grac. – Mae gyda ni ddigon o broblemau gyda selsig Franz Kafka hebddot ti ddod fan hyn.

Slefriodd yr ynfyntyn cyfoethog yn ddi-ddeall. Ni ddwedodd yr un gair, ond gwneud sŵn fel rhechu efo’i wefusau.

Aeth y Prif Lwmpen Seimllyd i nôl piben enfawr, cyn diflannu. Ymhen eiliadau, roedd yr ardd i gyd yn nofio mewn slyri.

– Dyna’r trefn cyffredinol o bethau, meddai Daf, yn sychu’r baw allan o’i lygaid.

Saesneg / English

One day, the Prime Minister of England appeared in the garden. Let’s call him “Joris Bonson” as that was almost his name. He was like a blonde pig, lascivious and uncaring. He kicked poor Keith the gourd, and was about to attempt to seduce Queen Branwen in his greasy manner, when Dave the cat challenged the horrible lump.

Go away, said Dave angrily. – We’ve got enough problems with Franz Kafka’s sausages without you coming here.

The rich idiot drooled uncomprehendingly. He said not a word, but made a farting sound with his lips.

The Prime Greasy Lump went to fetch an enormous pipe, before disappearing. Within seconds, the whole garden was swimming in sewage.

– That’s the general order of things, said Dave, wiping the muck out of his eyes.