Pogue Trader

Roll up ! Roll up. Get your incomprehensible rambling Irishman here. 
I tell you what ladies, not only does he make no sense at all, but he sings ! It’s true ! Not in your conventional ‘melodious words flowing out to lift your heart’ kind of way, but in a gravel gargling, toothless mumbling sort of way. So how much will you give me for this worn out shambling wreck of a musician ? Do I hear one hundred pounds ?
FOUR POUND FIFTY ? You’re havin’ a laugh ain’t you mate ?
Ah go on on then. I’m me own worst enemy sometimes I tell you.

Rogue Trader

Roll up ! Roll up. Get your mischievous old man here ! Watch out ladies, this one’s got the principles of a horny rabbit and the twinkle of the devil in his eye. Everybody loves him. And I’m not asking four hundred pounds, I’m not asking three hundred. For you madam, because I love you and you’ve got eyes so deep I want to curl up inside them and float away to heaven, I am selling this loveable old monster for only one hundred pounds. No wait. I’m killing myself here, but I can’t sell him for a price like that. For only ninety nine pounds ladies ! SOLD to the old queen at the rear – nice one Quentin – you can pick him up round the back.