Uploaded June 2025 | Updated September 2026, 6 hours ago
"Mae ‘na gyfeiriad yn y gerdd nesa ‘ma at y ffaith mod i ‘brin hanner ffordd at oed yr addewid’. Mae hynny’n rhoi syniad i chi o ba mor hen ydi’r gerdd hon! Mae hefyd sôn yn y gerdd am fy ngwraig yn ‘gwneud y Llanddewi Brefi’ – cyfeiriad yn fanno at y chwedl am ein nawddsant, Dewi Sant, wrth annerch y Cymry am y tro olaf, a’r bobol yn y cefn yn methu clywed, dyma fo’n peri i’r tir godi fyny o dan ei draed, fel bod pawb yn medru clywed ei neges... a’r bryncyn a grewyd felly yn ymdebygu efallai i fol dynes pan fo hi’n feichiog!"
Y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol
Dychrynaf, wrth basio fy hun mewn ffenest;
y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol!
- y llefnyn llythrennol yn y ffotos arddegol
na fedrai hyd yn oed wlychu
heb symud o gwmpas mewn glaw!
dwi'n ffieiddio at y newid
a minna prin hanner ffordd
at oed yr addewid;
bydd isio berfa arna'i,
cyn cyrraedd hanner cant!
y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol....
dwi'n gwisgo bathodyn y byw bras
y cwrw mawr a'r koorma hwyr
ac amhosib fydd cuddio logo canol oed
dan labed fy siaced ;
troes yn silff ben tân uwch trowsus,
dyma'r bondo a'r bay window dros y belt
Y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol...
Yn y bath, mi fedraf ei ddofi,
ei droi yn ynys isel mewn cylch o ddwr,
moel gron yn ymgodi'n dwt
dan Himalayas fy mhennaglinia
(y fi yw’r boi hefo’r bol bach!)
ond pan ddôf fel hippo o'r dwr,
mae disgyrchiant yn creu disgo erchyll
o'r floneg aflonydd;
mae'n bochio fel bag Tesco llawn blancmange,
mae'n drwm fel llond sach o Aberystwyth,
mae'n gydymaith, mae'n gydwybod...
Y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol...
Ac os wyf inna'n feichiog, gan fuchedd ofer
mae bol fy ngwraig,
sydd wedi llanddewibrefi
bedair gwaith gyda babi,
yn fflat yn ôl fel hambwrdd;
croen crêpe yr amlesgor
yw'r unig gamwri
sy'n tystio i'w mamhydri
ac hefyd, dwi'n ama, i'm diogi inna...
na fagodd ddim ond laff
yn y bol yma...
ond mae isio chwerthin weithia,
a dysgu caru ein ffaeledda!
Felly - y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol.
Y fi yw’r boi hefo’r bol!!
"There’s a reference in the next poem to my being barely half way to seventy. That gives you an idea of how old this poem is! The poem also mentions my wife ‘doing the Llanddewi Brefi’ – a reference to the legend of how our patron saint, Saint David, addressed the Welsh people for the last time, and as the ones at the back of the crowd were unable to hear him, he made the ground rise up beneath his feet so eveyone could hear his message to them... and the hill that he created thus, looks a little like a woman’s belly when she’s pregnant!"
I’m that guy with the gut
I jump, as I pass myself in a window:
I’m that guy with the gut!
Me! The young rake, (literally):
thin as, in those teen photos,
who couldn’t even get wet
without moving around in the rain!
It’s disgusting taking this change on board
I’m barely halfway along
the allotted years of our Lord;
I’ll need a barrow for when
I hit the three score and ten!
I’m that guy with the gut!
I’m sporting the badge of decadent living,
the beery sessions, and then the Indians
but you can’t hide the logo of middle age
under the lapel of your jacket;
it’s a mantlepiece over my pants,
a bay window above my belt,
eaves, even
I’m that guy with the gut!
In the bath I can tame it,
make it a sandbank in a circle of sea,
a round foothill rising meekly
beneath the Himalayas of my knees
(I’m that guy with a moderate gut)
but when I come from the water
like a hippo dripping,
the pulling power of Club Gravity
always draws the flubber to the floor
it bulges like a Tesco bag
full of blancmange,
heavier than a sackful of Aberystwyth,
this, my conscience,
and fellow traveller of the front...
I’m that guy with the gut!
And if I’m pregnant from my prodigality,
my wife, who’s done the Llanddewibrefi
four times with baby in the belly,
always gets back flat like a tray;
the crepe skin of multiple parturition
is the only man-ifestation
that testifies to her-oism
and is also a witness
to my own laziness,
I who have bred forth
no more than a belly laugh or two
from my own abdomen
I’m that guy with the gut!
but we need to laugh sometimes
and learn to love our failings
so...
I’m that guy with the gut!
I’m that guy with the gut!
Part of the CIALL-supported "Extensions" initiative with Island Voices/Guthan nan Eilean.
Full information here: guthan.wordpress.com/2025/06/23/ifor-ap-glyn-welshman-from-london
"Mae ‘na gyfeiriad yn y gerdd nesa ‘ma at y ffaith mod i ‘brin hanner ffordd at oed yr addewid’. Mae hynny’n rhoi syniad i chi o ba mor hen ydi’r gerdd hon! Mae hefyd sôn yn y gerdd am fy ngwraig yn ‘gwneud y Llanddewi Brefi’ – cyfeiriad yn fanno at y chwedl am ein nawddsant, Dewi Sant, wrth annerch y Cymry am y tro olaf, a’r bobol yn y cefn yn methu clywed, dyma fo’n peri i’r tir godi fyny o dan ei draed, fel bod pawb yn medru clywed ei neges... a’r bryncyn a grewyd felly yn ymdebygu efallai i fol dynes pan fo hi’n feichiog!"
Y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol
Dychrynaf, wrth basio fy hun mewn ffenest;
y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol!
- y llefnyn llythrennol yn y ffotos arddegol
na fedrai hyd yn oed wlychu
heb symud o gwmpas mewn glaw!
dwi'n ffieiddio at y newid
a minna prin hanner ffordd
at oed yr addewid;
bydd isio berfa arna'i,
cyn cyrraedd hanner cant!
y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol....
dwi'n gwisgo bathodyn y byw bras
y cwrw mawr a'r koorma hwyr
ac amhosib fydd cuddio logo canol oed
dan labed fy siaced ;
troes yn silff ben tân uwch trowsus,
dyma'r bondo a'r bay window dros y belt
Y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol...
Yn y bath, mi fedraf ei ddofi,
ei droi yn ynys isel mewn cylch o ddwr,
moel gron yn ymgodi'n dwt
dan Himalayas fy mhennaglinia
(y fi yw’r boi hefo’r bol bach!)
ond pan ddôf fel hippo o'r dwr,
mae disgyrchiant yn creu disgo erchyll
o'r floneg aflonydd;
mae'n bochio fel bag Tesco llawn blancmange,
mae'n drwm fel llond sach o Aberystwyth,
mae'n gydymaith, mae'n gydwybod...
Y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol...
Ac os wyf inna'n feichiog, gan fuchedd ofer
mae bol fy ngwraig,
sydd wedi llanddewibrefi
bedair gwaith gyda babi,
yn fflat yn ôl fel hambwrdd;
croen crêpe yr amlesgor
yw'r unig gamwri
sy'n tystio i'w mamhydri
ac hefyd, dwi'n ama, i'm diogi inna...
na fagodd ddim ond laff
yn y bol yma...
ond mae isio chwerthin weithia,
a dysgu caru ein ffaeledda!
Felly - y fi yw'r boi hefo'r bol.
Y fi yw’r boi hefo’r bol!!
"There’s a reference in the next poem to my being barely half way to seventy. That gives you an idea of how old this poem is! The poem also mentions my wife ‘doing the Llanddewi Brefi’ – a reference to the legend of how our patron saint, Saint David, addressed the Welsh people for the last time, and as the ones at the back of the crowd were unable to hear him, he made the ground rise up beneath his feet so eveyone could hear his message to them... and the hill that he created thus, looks a little like a woman’s belly when she’s pregnant!"
I’m that guy with the gut
I jump, as I pass myself in a window:
I’m that guy with the gut!
Me! The young rake, (literally):
thin as, in those teen photos,
who couldn’t even get wet
without moving around in the rain!
It’s disgusting taking this change on board
I’m barely halfway along
the allotted years of our Lord;
I’ll need a barrow for when
I hit the three score and ten!
I’m that guy with the gut!
I’m sporting the badge of decadent living,
the beery sessions, and then the Indians
but you can’t hide the logo of middle age
under the lapel of your jacket;
it’s a mantlepiece over my pants,
a bay window above my belt,
eaves, even
I’m that guy with the gut!
In the bath I can tame it,
make it a sandbank in a circle of sea,
a round foothill rising meekly
beneath the Himalayas of my knees
(I’m that guy with a moderate gut)
but when I come from the water
like a hippo dripping,
the pulling power of Club Gravity
always draws the flubber to the floor
it bulges like a Tesco bag
full of blancmange,
heavier than a sackful of Aberystwyth,
this, my conscience,
and fellow traveller of the front...
I’m that guy with the gut!
And if I’m pregnant from my prodigality,
my wife, who’s done the Llanddewibrefi
four times with baby in the belly,
always gets back flat like a tray;
the crepe skin of multiple parturition
is the only man-ifestation
that testifies to her-oism
and is also a witness
to my own laziness,
I who have bred forth
no more than a belly laugh or two
from my own abdomen
I’m that guy with the gut!
but we need to laugh sometimes
and learn to love our failings
so...
I’m that guy with the gut!
I’m that guy with the gut!
Part of the CIALL-supported "Extensions" initiative with Island Voices/Guthan nan Eilean.
Full information here: guthan.wordpress.com/2025/06/23/ifor-ap-glyn-welshman-from-london
