There's not much peynt in cleanin thess'ole.

Un gerr'in rid er't th'ash.

There's nowt fot mek a fire wi.

Cos mi faythers geet no cash.

Well ! corn't wi get thowd bike eawt.

Un gerr a couple er sacks.

Go on, nana, get yo clogs on.

We'll go deawn railroad tracks.

Trudgin deawn cut bank.

Bikerim in a rut.

We were boyh slutched up ter't th'eye baws.

We var'neer fawd in't cut.

We scrambled up ter't bankin.

Mi nana scrawped her knee.

I slorred deawn un cut mi ond.

It all'us appn't to me.

Soon wi had two sack full.

One nutty slack, un tuther wi coke.

Mi nana took it serious.

I thowt it a joke.

Her'd sling um on her showder.

Her did it on her own.

A feat, that was amazin.

Cos her weighed but seven stone.

Her'd poosh that bike awt road wom.

That too was a gradley feat.

Wi one sack slung ore't peggles.

Un tuther slung ore't seat.

It seems impossible neaw fot think.

Eaw a woman of four foot ten.

Could poosh a bike wi that much weight.

Time un time agen.

Wonc't back wom, her sowd one sack.

There allus was a buyer.

That neet wi ad some jackbit.

Un wi also ad a fire.

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Copyright © 1998 Jeff Unsworth

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