My Pome (by Little Willie - with apologies to Alf, Lord Tennyson)
In the Spring the gret ole pidgin come an coo fust thing every mornin';
In the Spring that dutty seagull crap on waashin' without warnin';
In the Spring there's nourthin' betta than a chance t'go a-mardlin';
In the Spring him indoor's fancy turn ter tricoleartin' up the gaardin!
D'yer know, him indoors spent all terday cuttin' the lawn an' weedin' the borders, an' din't even bother t'see if I wuz orlroight, he din't. Let alone give me a friendly kick over! Thoughts a love? Him indoors dorn't know what thass for ennymore. Probly reckun thass t'stir his corfee with! Jist yew wearte till termorra, I oan't staart, I oan't, I'll mearke ut haard for him, I will - yew see if I dun't!