Well Denis (Sydneygeek),
that sounds like a challenge.....
That rough bough we saw as we passed through Lough Neagh - do you remember, you had hiccoughs - ought to be made into a trough for kneading dough thoroughly.
Farming with the Goughs
In long lazy sweeps, the crow-like chough
Returns to nest across the lough.
The farmer, with asthmatic cough
Walks down the pathway,
Sometimes through a valley,
Where the wind may sough its music,
Over many a bough.
His wife prepares the Sunday dough
While Bert, their son, whose hands are rough
Gets ready to hitch up the plough.
edited, 'cos I cant spel rite......