Mae sawl côr meibion ychwanegol wedi ymddangos yn yr ardd. Nid yw hyn yn arbennig o ddoniol. Maen nhw fel pla. Pla meddw. Maen nhw’n yfed gwin Dewi Sant i gyd a chwrso ar ôl Santes Dwynwen a’r cathod, sydd ddim yn hapus o gwbl.
Mae’r ardd mewn anhrefn.
Mae’r Esgob wedi hen fynd, felly does neb yn gwybod beth i’w wneud.
– Mae syniad ‘da fi, meddai Daf y gath wrth redeg i ffwrdd o denor, – ond mae’n bach o risg.
– Beth? mae Jeff yn gofyn, a’i gwynt yn ei dwrn. – Rhaid i ni neud rhywbeth.
– ‘Sen ni’n gallu ‘u perswadio nhw taw peiriant bragu yw peiriant cwstard Santes Dwynwen mewn gwirionedd, bydden nhw’n yfed lot gormod o gwstard a marw.
– Mae’n werth ei drio, meddai Jeff.
Mae Franz Kafka yn gwneud arwydd annarllenadwy a’i roi ar beiriant cwstard Santes Dwynwen. Ond yn sydyn, mae pawb yn sylweddoli bod y corau meibion wedi diflannu beth bynnag.
Mae Samuel Beckett wedi achub y dydd!
Mae e wedi dechrau adrodd darn diflas o’i waith, ac erbyn hyn mae’r cantorion meddw wedi rhedeg i ffwrdd.
Saesneg / English
Plague
Several additional male voice choirs have appeared in the garden. This is not particularly funny. They are like a plague. A drunk plague. They drink all of St David’s wine and run after St Dwynwen and the cats, who are not happy at all.
The garden is in disarray.
The Bishop is long gone, so nobody knows what to do.
– I have a good idea, says Dave the cat while running away from a tenor, – but it’s a little risky.
– What? Jeff asks, out of breath. – We have to do something.
– If we could persuade them that Saint Dwynwen’s custard machine is actually a brewing machine, they would drink too much custard and die.
– It’s worth a try, said Jeff.
Franz Kafka makes an illegible sign and puts it on Saint Dwynwen’s custard machine. But suddenly, everyone realizes that the male voice choirs have disappeared anyway.
Samuel Beckett has saved the day!
He has begun to recite a miserable piece of his work, and now the drunken singers have run away.
