Down in the bog called Washington, where the menfolk cut the peat to warm the home hearths, they do speak of the passel of Dowd children. There was Joseph, killed by fire, twice. There was Martin, who drowned on dry land. There was the first set of twins, who perished of plow elbow and altar boy's knee, respectively. There was the second set of twins, who grew to thrive as vibrantly as their brothers did wither, and who did open the finest gastropub in the village. And then, of course, there was the bardic sage, young Maureen, who
Altar Boy's Knee is one of the worst possible diseases. Not as bad as Altar Boy's Rectum, though.