Stan Brown

Ours is a nice street, ours is,
In fact it's quite posh an' select.
It's even been in t' local papers,
For the cleanest o' donkey stoned steps.

We all 'ave us numbers well polished,
Net curtains are all dolly blued.
An' there's proper bog paper in t' privy's,
'Cos we even take pride in us loo's.

The neighbours, are always dead friendly,
There's none of us ever 'ad words.
An t' children don't play noisy ball games,
'Cos kids should be seen an' not 'eard.

It were one night last week when it 'appened,
We were jus' sittin an' eatin' us tea.
When we 'eard all this shoutin' an' cussin',
So we all piled outside like... t' see.

Now not bein' used t' commotion,
We thought maybe war 'ad broke out.
So dad put 'is beer in the cellar,
So t' shrapnel wouldn't get it or nowt.
  It were 'Oward the old rag an' bone bloke,
With 'is 'orse that 'ad just dropped a load.
An' 'e were arguin' the toss wi' Big Jimmy,
The bloke from th' allotments down road.

"It's tuppence a bag!" 'Oward shouted.
"I'll not teck a penny piece less.
Y' can tell by th' aroma an' texture,
I feed 'im on nowt but the best."

"Tuppence a bag?" Jim retorted.
"I don't want the 'orse, just its muck.
I'll give yer no more than a penny,
An' I'll throw in a turnip for luck."

Then mam brought 'er shovel an' bucket,
An' swept it all up nice an' neat.
"We can't 'ave this muck on the roadway,
It'll lower the tone o' the street."

"That's tuppence a bag." 'Oward told 'er,
"I can't be no fairer than that."
Mam give 'im a jumper with 'oles in,
An' one o' me fathers old 'ats.

Now the 'orse, it were gettin' dead bored like,
Jus' standin' an' 'angin' around.
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