by Walter "William Fletcher" Craigs
(con accento Geordieoso)
Whoah! Mistah Luntz, man, ya daftyankee
Buggah! Not so fast there, man: Lord Tony, laik,
He’s not yet said Graice, and so I’ll thankee
To wait a mo’ — ye canna teik a hike
Till yer’ve swallered sum slop — er, partaken,
Laik, of the kitchen’s finest; ternight it’s
Bitsa quail and grouse, all wrapped in bacon;
Taits luvvly, man — wharrifitlookslaikshit?
Yer not understandin’ a wuerd I say,
Are yer, man? Yerbloodyanks, yer aller same!
I hate yer all! In uncouth tones yer bray!
Wi’ more dosh than a duchess on the game!
An’ flash yer packet, but yer’ve nowt below,
Unlaik me! Aye, man, for there hangs a tale!
So swears me fair wife! For how shoulda know?
Because o’ me luvv o’ fine Newkie ale,
I’ve not seen it fer years! My belly shades,
Laik, what down there lurks: Greet Northern Wadger!
Organic! Unlaik yer Astroturf braids!
And I’ll askyer, Mistah Luntz, notta badger
Them servin’ girls; all luvvly local meids;
(If you believe that, you are more stupid
Than you look!) Maind you, foraquidorfifty
I’ll fix yerup — tha’s me, Uncle Cupid!
Treecy here will snogyerup, wellnifty,
(Longasyerputapaiperbagonyeredd.)
Wayayy, me Lordship (yafatgit), I’m comin’ —
Ay! Mistah Henrey, stop chuckin’ that bread!
These bluddy postgrads! There is more scummin
Here than in ternaight’s veggie broth! I’ll dock at
High Table, to ladle the scoff, and if a
Silvah spoon, laik, should drop in me pocket,
I’ll look well after it, man, to bolster
My paltry pay … me pantry I’ll upholster!
Canny, Mistah Luntz! (Yadaftyankeebuggah!)