Scouse poem:

Gerrup der la! De knocker-up sleeps light;

Dawn taps yer winder, ends anudder night;

And Lo! The dog-eared moggies from next-door

Tear up the jigger fer an early fight.



Half-dreaming, half par’latic on me back;

0 Jeez. another day before yiz, Jack;

And groping for de ciggies by me bed

I sought de drag dat frees me from de rack.



De Wend’s just like dat pub in ‘Ackins ‘Ey,

De towels on de taps all bleedin’ day;

Yer time is up before a decent sup

Dat mingy Landlord, late, says: “On yer way”.



Many’s the fella dat I use’ter mug;

Ard cases who could bevvy by the jug.

Dey’ve cadged dere last latch-lifter out a me

And werms live jockey-bar inside dere lug.



So shun de Cokes and join me in de Pub;

But ‘urry, Life is short, aye dere’s the rub.

De Liver Bird’s already on de wing

And Time’s de one thing, mates, yer’ll never sub!



0 Thou who didst wid Threlfalls and wid gin

Allow us all to take life on de chin;

Are you de self-same unrelenting Sod

Who slips us all de final Mickey-Finn?



So come, me mates, and fill yer boots wid Beer;

You may be in Ford Cemetery next year;

Termorrer? Listen La, it never comes,

Let Fally drown yer sorrows, its de gear.



Poor Uncle Tom no longer bears de ‘od,

Unless ee’s still a brickie up wid God;

And Clayballs, Guardian of de Mystery

In Smithie lies, six feet below de sod!



Dey say dat pile a bricks in Calderstones

Was once a Druids doss-house full of thrones;

But dig at around where kids now sport and play

And all you’ll find’s discarded rags and bones.



Alas dat Rose should vanish with me mate

And leave them unpaid bevvies on de slate;

With all dem fag ends, soaked beyond repair

And all dem hours lost though minutes late.



And a lad I seldom went ter school;

Just bare-arsed round de streets of Liverpool.

lost all me coloured ollies down de grid

And skipped de leckies to de stick of Doom!



O Christ I’d pawn me heart in Rotherhams

And even swap de buses for de trams

For a vintage butty spread wid Hartley’s Jam

Or a day at Blackler’s Grotto wid me Mam



O for a cob of chuck beneat de boughs

The Footy Echo an’ a pan of Scouse

A Black & Tan, and Maggie sweatin’ bricks

In Sevvies rough, dats paradise enough





De ref no question makes of rights or wrongs

Just makes de rules up as ‘e goes along.

And many a foul as penalized de weak

While many an offside rule supports de strong.



Life’s like a game of pitch ‘n toss

But youre de mug dats thrown up wid de boss

Its heads a penny, but de ‘ead is yours

Somehow you find dat every call’s a loss



When I was young half of me time was spent

Up jowlers playing ‘ookey wid de rent

Was always skint and found I use’ter go

Down de same jiggers as whereup I went

Dats put der top on ut!

-m 😉

Fun to read - but we have the Philharmonic Hall too you know and a lively chess scene.
When I moved to be a manager in a neighbouring town beginning with St and Hel, I got criticised for giving a job to a Scouser and realised that the label is not always an affectionate one.

Originally posted by finnegan
Fun to read - but we have the Philharmonic Hall too you know and a lively chess scene.
When I moved to be a manager in a neighbouring town beginning with St and Hel, I got criticised for giving a job to a Scouser and realised that the label is not always an affectionate one.

Originally posted by mikelom
Scouse poem:

Gerrup der la! De knocker-up sleeps light;

Dawn taps yer winder, ends anudder night;

And Lo! The dog-eared moggies from next-door

Tear up the jigger fer an early fight.



Half-dreaming, half par’latic on me back;

0 Jeez. another day before yiz, Jack;

And groping for de ciggies by me bed

I sought de drag dat frees me f ...[text shortened]... e’ter go

Down de same jiggers as whereup I went

Dats put der top on ut!

-m 😉