The Black Country's tongue has been junked on the tip.
Folks say it t'ay proper English, a decaying dialect.
I reply, "Shut yow cake hole barmpots, dow yow know
Black Country is the onny survivin' sound of Owld English?
Even that famous mon, Chaucer, was a West Midlands mucker".
So yow plont potatoes an' we dig - up taters with dirty donnies.
Yow maintain oral igiene with toothpaste, we spit out tuffpaste.
Yow weit fer a bus when we catch the buz. T'ay no different.
The music may sound outta tune, but the routine's the same.
I gerrup at 6am, wash me onds and fisoge n' comb me yahair.
Pull on me uniform trazis, thermal ganzy n' weskit.
I pop me yat on me yead n' grab a Tetnul Dick for breffus.
Say torah to me cocka, mec sure he'll give the babbee its bokkle,
Promise owa Lewis a bag of kaline suck.
"Adu?" to Mrs Hollingsworth, ooh 'er is 'alf soaked since
That Martin went missin', sawa the coppers kum this mornin'.
Number 24's wommel is yowling the street down again.
At the buz stop Muck Fayce and Bragg Arse sly munch -
Fayces like a fawpny hock. The buz driver's gorra cobb on,
Chunters "tickets ploise", caggy-handed bugger.
I sit next to Mrs Millward, ers a nus at Hallum orsepickle.
Ooh 'er dow 'alf mec me loff, loff I say I nearly shat me self.
"Oroit?" I ask, " 'ow was yow wikend?" 'Er says, "I ay bloody
Havin' a Saturday off agen. The twins got into an argy-bargy
On the tip, bobbies bought em um scared to jeth -
They want coal crackin'on their yeads".
Me boss at Dray Springs has gorra a bob on hisself.
11.30 fake break atter stand outside in the cowld,
Cor risk another foyer. Gagging for a cuppa tae, gotta
Gob full of fevers. Kum 5.30 I'm the fust outta the dowa,
"Trarabit". Cook lomb's brains on toast fer faither's supper.
The tittie babi squawls cutting 'er tuttie pegs and kiddling.
Then it's up the wooden hill to me cot,
Countin' the bobhowlers splattin' up me window.
That's mar life in mar language, rusty vowowls,
Corroded consonants, maet flies aet its rottin' flesh.
Black Country leaves a metallic taste in yow mouths,
But in owa 'ell flame foundries we'll melt it down
And keep recastin' it.
Edited because the damn autocensor can't cope with dialect.