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Poppy

A mardy arse is Poppy,
She’s all-ass roorin and playin up.
She can’t run nor climb nor kick a ball,
She just pretends and meks stuff up.

I wish she were like me moor,
And not so soft and girly.
I wish she’d av her hair cut,
And not all long and curly.

Me mam’s asked her to me birthday,
It’s because this time I’m ten.
I’m hopin’ that she waint come,
Cos lads are best bi us sen.

Ayup, she’s coming nah,
Wearing shorts and a frilly vest.
She looks or-reight in that,
When she scrubbed up in her best.

I hope she’s glad to see me,
She’ll see I’m gerring bigger.
Her hair is looking nicer,
And by eck she’s gorra figure.

I’m glad she’s not like me moor,
She’s quite nice all soft and girly.
I just hope that she still likes me,
And dunt go home too early.

It dunt matter if she cant feight,
And who needs to kick a ball.
Thiz moor to life than feighting,
And Poppy’s gorrit all.