by Anon I were browt up in a terraced 'ouse In a narrow dog-legged street; There were nine on us, an' I were t'last, Born one rainy neet. General Strike were on at t' time; No coal, no gas, no nowt At least that's what my old man said; I don't remember owt. But what I do remember; So does my sister Meg; We thowt it were a luxury When Dad gi' us top off th'egg. Mi childer think I'm coddin' An' they laugh in disbelief As they tuck into their T-bone steaks, Scampi, ducklin' an' roast beef. I tell 'em 'ow mam pawned 'er clothes At t'pawnshop on Boundary Road; Eighteen pence, that's all she geet T'ease 'er of 'er load. She paid what she owed at t'corner shop An' for t'rest o' t' week she'd beg; But allus on a Friday neet Dad gi' me top off th'egg. I've made a pound or two sin' then; My childer waint go short; Three meals a day an' a car to t'schoo' An' back home again they're brought. I envy them, an' then again I think how much they've missed, Like home made toffee, nettle beer, Sundays and solo whist. They tek too much for granted We's a' to tek 'em down a peg; And do like my old dad did Just gi' em top off th'egg.
The end