SOME KNIGHT ©
In days of owd when Knights were bowd,
and suits were made of tin.
No mortal cry escaped the guy,
who sat upon on a pin.
Staggering home from the boozer,
was one unlucky old bod.
Wending his way in the moon light,
as to his bed he did plod.
Once he got to the drawer bridge,
he thought he was home and dry.
But alas he tripped ower the railin’,
an’ entered watter wi’ a tremulous cry.
Bubbles bust like, “Ockle cockle!”
as the air left his tin suit.
An’ Knight sank t’ mud bottom,
wishin’ ‘e could swim like a newt.
They pulled him out the next mornin’,
but alas it was already tu late.
So they buried him in the Chochyerd,
next to another drunken mate.
There’s a line of owd tombstones still standin’,
in Barton’s owd Chochyrd so green.
But one should ony read ‘em in’t dayleet,
cos at night app’n a ghost might be seen.
Wearing rusted owd armor burpin’,
and as slewed as a de-frosted newt.
With two old mates playing bagpipes,
and another blawin’ an owd rusted flute.
They cavort on’t grass in‘t moonleet,
wi elves an’ horned toads reet crass.
But wen sun comes up in’t mawnin’
the beggers are back under’t grass.