As a boy, my Sussex granddad could
spot the runty dillin in a pig’s litter,
play the fool down the pleached twittern,
cry fainits when he wanted out of the game,
make jokes about the daglets on a sheep’s bum
comparing them to his own number two’s.
From the Warwickshire lot I got
the blart of waltzers at Stratford Mop,
learned to swill the sink after washing up,
to call down the jutty at the side of the ’us –
loud enough to wake the diddikais about whom
my mother said I never should.
In rural Oxfordshire, I wuz moi duck
to aunts who let me tiffle biddy hens
off their eggs, bring in pecked bottles
of miwk off of the step, nudged me
out of looking a sawney, warned me
to avoid the bunt of boys or even a cow.
In Sheffield now with you, flower,
I look after us tranklements, crozzle
my bacon and modge my pudding,
put the door on t’ sneck, go to t’ foot
of our stairs, let da into t’ entry, talk
clarty at neet, lake and love da till ah dee.