Do you want to read this ditty
about a girl who came from,
the city.
Her name doesn't really matter,
because it's only,
a load of old chatter.
The girls father was a booser
a real right battle cruiser.
He sent her on the street,
with nothing on her,
plates of meat.
This poor little
cockney sparrow,
who could hardly push
her barrow.
The poor girl was brasic,
there was hardly any brass,
but the blame was with her farther,
who was always on his, Khyber Pass
She had to keep
herself fed,
to stop her from ending up
brown bread.
The toffs would come
dressed in whistle and flutes,
toffed up to the nines,
right down to their to daisy roots.
Upon their heads were titfer's
that shone like polished glass,
and always their sky rockets,
were jingerling, full of brass.
She would chat, to them all
until the very last call.
Then down the frog and toad
her drunken father would come,
he never knew it was all over,
when landing on his fife and drum.
The toffs they threw him
up on to the barrow,
and crushed his
prize cockney marrow.
They took him to the hospital,
because he coulden't, jimmy widdle
and this is the end,
of the cockney sparrows' riddle.
sylvia spencer
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-riddle-of-the-cockney-sparrow/
