Stan Brown

  It were weeks since we'd last seen the milk man,
An' months since the meters were read.
The 'earse wouldn't venture down our street,
Not even t' pick up the dead.

The coal man would just shrug 'is shoulders.
"There's no way I'm goin' down there.
You'll 'ave t' set fire to your tables,
An' maybe your old rockin' chairs."

Now the reason for all this commotion,
Were a dog that its owners called Bert
It prowled up an' down on the pavement,
Jus' lookin' for strangers to 'urt.

Its coat were as wiry as Brillo,
Its eyes they were evil an' dark.
An' it chewed on the steps of the 'ouses,
In an effort t' keep it teeth sharp.

The postman just wouldn't come near us,
Not after 'is do wi' the dog.
'Is pants were just 'angin' in tatters,
An' 'e didn't quite make it t' bog.
"It's like bein' marooned," said me mother.
"There's no one'll visit us like.
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