Abigail Donnycarney Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

So, whore—whaddya reckon? Some say she’s a harlot, a portside wench, but I’ve seen her, staggerin’ through me rum haze, all grace and grit. She’s no common trollop, nah, she’s got secrets stitched in her skirts. Heard tell she once conned a governor outta his gold—true story, mate! Used nothin’ but a wink and a pilfered fan. Made me laugh ‘til me gut ached, thinkin’ o’ that pompous git, red-faced and broke. Savvy?

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First stop, this old pub, The Donnycarney Inn. You know, the one with the creaky floors and the smell of stale beer? Yeah, that one. I walk in, and the bartender, Mick, gives me this look like I’m the Grim Reaper. “You here for the rats or the pints?” he jokes. I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “Dude, I’d rather deal with a hundred rats than one pint of your awful lager.”

Death Notice of James (Jimmy) Wren (Donnycarney, Dublin)