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About Limerick

Ain’t all roses, mind. Some dodgy joints—greasy palms, stinkin’ of cheap lavender, promisin’ “happy ends” like it’s a bloody tavern special. Pisses me off, ruinin’ a fine art. Me mate Bronn says, “Tyrion, it’s just a posh wank,” but he’s wrong—takes skill, guts, knowin’ the body like a map. “Give me something,” I’d beg, quotin’ that film again, desperate for release—worked every time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but when them fingers hit the right spot, it’s bloody dragons soarinn’ in yer chest!