(Also, my attempt at an Irish accent probably sounds more like a pirate.)
An'th'beast wi'th'two backs stalked th'land, 'til one day th'Prince up and said, "Aye, far shar, far shar an'begorrah, I best be goin' on me way. 'Tis time I changed me'name to an unpronounceable symbol, and I've a hankerin' t'join th'Jeehovy's Witnesses."
"Off wit'ye! Y'either had too much whiskey, or ye haven't had enough!" the banshee Shneed replied. "There's plenty unpronounceable enough for ye in the Gaelic tongue without no symbol, and there'll be no witnessin' in this house, for Jeehovy or anyone else, far shar, far shar, an'begorrah!"
"Off wit'ye then, y'gender-ambiguous banshee!"
So th'Prince left, an'every day th'banshee Shneed waited f'r the news o'th'Prince, until one day a messenger came. "Have ye any news o'th'Prince?"
"Aye, milady (or mi'man, I can'really tell th'difference wit'ye)*, but'i 'tisn't good. Th'Prince is dead."
"Aye, wish'i 'tweren't so, but 'e's as dead as yer career, an'there ain't nothin' deader, far shar, far shar an'begorrah."
"Nae!" th'banshee Shneed cried out, an'called for her lady-in-waiting. "Bridget, get me lawnmower. I'm cuttin' me hair with it, seein' as how I'm in mournin'."
"Why should t'day be different from every other day?" Bridget thought, but knew better than t'ask. She was just about to bring th'lawnmower when th'banshee Shneed called out "'Twas th'Arsenio! Th'Arsenio, what ha'e killed th'Prince!"
"What?" asked Bridget, but th'banshee Shneed took th'lawnmower from her an'in'er grief an'er rage, she cut'er own head off with it, an'twas th'end o'th'banshee Shneed. Legend has it she still haunts th'archives at Saturday Night Live, or that ye can still see'er at th'annual Shamin' o'the Slut.
*What would male banshees be called, anyway? Banshos? Banshers? Dropkick Murphys?