The Death of the Cockney


A street-seller by trade

He works hard for his little pay.

Bright and sharp, never-say-die,

He hooks on to a passer-by,

“Only the freshest apples alwight,

I’ll give yer two more too, free of price.

Life is abat luv arfter awl ain’t it,

Yeh it’s ‘ard, but you carnt quit.”

But the walker ignores this rare host,

Casts him to the land of ghosts

Forgetting that where he’s from, where he belonged,

Was right here, in this bit of Hoxton.

Mounted on an elephant he rides

Up to the castle, still clad with pride.

A stream of pearls paves the way up,

And he’s met by Rosie overflowing in the cup.

He sits and waits for the hour,

when the Bow bells slay the dour.

Then he will return and wake the eels barred in jelly –

The charming Cockney, ever merry.



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