Dead Turkeys

I'd barely peeked from behind me eye whiskers when I heard an awful thud on me door. T'was Blind Mickey chawin' cud at the doorstep, gyping about among me milkbottles, sure as soon as i through on the trousers and roped it up I had the latch loosened and he was in on top of me. 'Well, isn't it Gertie Adams, as I choke on me pipe?'. 'Will ye quit Mick, sure i'm foundered here in me night shirt and no wellingtons, come in till I light a fire.' 'Surely, if theres a pot brewin'. He bowled in and slumped in me oul Mothers knitting chair, god rest her, she was awful fond of making them mittens. 'So, Mick, what has you waking up the divil at this time of night'. 'Ach, you know me, always galavanting.''Mick, now what are lookin' me fer?'. 'Turkeys'. 'Fetching, a lock o' dead Turkeys that's diseased with the founder and festering up my side shed and firing them down to oul John Joes dump.'