Wot The Buglar Sore (Poetry)
31st August 2019
A buglar one dirk caldy nite
rite sceered us whit a bang —
sitch klatta woke the budgy wide
he tweedled lode und sang
The buglar seed the fetherbrane
wood gift his gaim away
so in his potchet tukked the burd
nun karful soft he play
But stares did kreek ’tho tuptow kwiet
the buglar klumsie kame
und triped hisself wid gurt looge pheet
he tangled doon agane
Then Father, ungered, beetrot-fashed
he shuck the buglar fearce
und tryed him roond wid bits o’ strung
he frettened — kald the plearce
The kloppers kame too howers lite
they kneeded all the fax
for high this buglar sluggered in —
so bulksome in beige slax
Twas a reel pizzle — that’s four shore
no lucks were packed nor broke
no dores were farced — the windots were
too smail forceps looge bloke
Then frum his potchet kame a skreetch
our budgy frust his hed
luked at the kloppers stud aroond
blu doon his beek und sed
“Ah Billy isa puttie buoy —
und Billy wantsa kish!”
the burd phlew back unto his cave
und dripped dud in his dish
“You morterer!” Mama exflamed
“You’ve culled our direst pet!
Aisle see you climped in chins four that —
you minstrous sassinette!”
The buglar blinched at her firade
the kloppers clapped him rind
und bangled him into there can
the tightmost of its kind
We burdied Billy in a bed
of blite fugotmanies
und creed a lettle as we dirged
our mistful litanies
Yet high that buglar gate inslide
reminds unwhiskered since ...
Was he a ghoat? The kloppers flailed
to latch his gingerprints
He shud’uv jotted frighty yarns
four our pure budgy’s debt
alack! he varnished kleen awol
slicked out the prisonette
Stringe no won sore the buglar skup
he wus there — nixt he wussant
but who wud mist him enywho
his pheet pinged far frum plessant
A yarn wint bye — no wurd of hymn
inspate of winted plasters
nurled to hevry noted broad
und cereal newtcasters
warring purple to tike car
und lick there dores at nite —
a morterer wos on the lose
sew belt all windots tite
Now Father talk it sericross
he bide a battlin gun
und leaned to shout them ballots strate
shud that mud buglar come
Won nite thar wus anither nose —
a tunkle of brick grass —
as windots in the kutchen crocked
und sum grot shudda passed
“It’s that mud buglar!” Father creed
und fried a shut rite kwik
“I node him bye his bargy pheet
wot ping so stinkly fick”
“Oh, safe our godfish!” scrawled Mama
“Hoard Will the himster, too.
He’ll cull the pits jist lake bee four —
that earful skunkaroo!”
It wont the buglar as they thort
but kloppers inner bunch —
a snit had wuspered doon the fone
’n leftam jist a hunch
So soon these kloppers went hat-pheet
the smellsome trale upon
und Father, cited und well-shuke
fired umptime tunes his gun
He shut sox kloppers in the neb —
they yulled and keeled aboat
ungered — bleedy on the parts —
an ‘ouch’ lumped in soar throat
In caught the drudge was odd und diff
the heavidents huff-hurd
he knotted Father wus in greef —
he’d dotted on our burd
Und sew the sintax was quote lite —
ton squid — a minth to say
his polligees and glove the gun
with ballots licked away
No kloppers deed as lack wud hive
the buglar flood abroad
und lift a lie quite as a moose —
so quite he wus ignawed
Tho elfin string seamed norman now
the dimage larsted long
revinge had blockened Father’s hat —
the surge to throt stewed strong
He haunt that buglar nite and dye
flu rind the wurld und beck
no trice he fund — nut hare nor hound
slo-trindled hame bewrecked
We mooved sune effta to a howse
flim kamras ranged the roof
und odour windots belted twice
to maykit buglar-proof
He rote a sine upon a bored
ALL BUGLARS SHUT ON SITE
his spilling wasn’t very gud
but got the massage rite
No buglars daired frum that dye on
to trubble or trud neer
sew Godfish und our himster both
lived hippy — new no feer
Und Father’s yungist sun — my bro
he flurrished tale und fit
he joaned up whiff them kloppers und
dig allfoul weal at it
Mama steel drooms odd buglars —
tikes pals to comb her curves
she hypes the nisty boast gets
wot a morterer disurves
Wile me — I paws and pizzle
ober wot sum whysman rote —
win buglars tern to fantoms
its rite hurd to kitch a ghoat!
rite sceered us whit a bang —
sitch klatta woke the budgy wide
he tweedled lode und sang
The buglar seed the fetherbrane
wood gift his gaim away
so in his potchet tukked the burd
nun karful soft he play
But stares did kreek ’tho tuptow kwiet
the buglar klumsie kame
und triped hisself wid gurt looge pheet
he tangled doon agane
Then Father, ungered, beetrot-fashed
he shuck the buglar fearce
und tryed him roond wid bits o’ strung
he frettened — kald the plearce
The kloppers kame too howers lite
they kneeded all the fax
for high this buglar sluggered in —
so bulksome in beige slax
Twas a reel pizzle — that’s four shore
no lucks were packed nor broke
no dores were farced — the windots were
too smail forceps looge bloke
Then frum his potchet kame a skreetch
our budgy frust his hed
luked at the kloppers stud aroond
blu doon his beek und sed
“Ah Billy isa puttie buoy —
und Billy wantsa kish!”
the burd phlew back unto his cave
und dripped dud in his dish
“You morterer!” Mama exflamed
“You’ve culled our direst pet!
Aisle see you climped in chins four that —
you minstrous sassinette!”
The buglar blinched at her firade
the kloppers clapped him rind
und bangled him into there can
the tightmost of its kind
We burdied Billy in a bed
of blite fugotmanies
und creed a lettle as we dirged
our mistful litanies
Yet high that buglar gate inslide
reminds unwhiskered since ...
Was he a ghoat? The kloppers flailed
to latch his gingerprints
He shud’uv jotted frighty yarns
four our pure budgy’s debt
alack! he varnished kleen awol
slicked out the prisonette
Stringe no won sore the buglar skup
he wus there — nixt he wussant
but who wud mist him enywho
his pheet pinged far frum plessant
A yarn wint bye — no wurd of hymn
inspate of winted plasters
nurled to hevry noted broad
und cereal newtcasters
warring purple to tike car
und lick there dores at nite —
a morterer wos on the lose
sew belt all windots tite
Now Father talk it sericross
he bide a battlin gun
und leaned to shout them ballots strate
shud that mud buglar come
Won nite thar wus anither nose —
a tunkle of brick grass —
as windots in the kutchen crocked
und sum grot shudda passed
“It’s that mud buglar!” Father creed
und fried a shut rite kwik
“I node him bye his bargy pheet
wot ping so stinkly fick”
“Oh, safe our godfish!” scrawled Mama
“Hoard Will the himster, too.
He’ll cull the pits jist lake bee four —
that earful skunkaroo!”
It wont the buglar as they thort
but kloppers inner bunch —
a snit had wuspered doon the fone
’n leftam jist a hunch
So soon these kloppers went hat-pheet
the smellsome trale upon
und Father, cited und well-shuke
fired umptime tunes his gun
He shut sox kloppers in the neb —
they yulled and keeled aboat
ungered — bleedy on the parts —
an ‘ouch’ lumped in soar throat
In caught the drudge was odd und diff
the heavidents huff-hurd
he knotted Father wus in greef —
he’d dotted on our burd
Und sew the sintax was quote lite —
ton squid — a minth to say
his polligees and glove the gun
with ballots licked away
No kloppers deed as lack wud hive
the buglar flood abroad
und lift a lie quite as a moose —
so quite he wus ignawed
Tho elfin string seamed norman now
the dimage larsted long
revinge had blockened Father’s hat —
the surge to throt stewed strong
He haunt that buglar nite and dye
flu rind the wurld und beck
no trice he fund — nut hare nor hound
slo-trindled hame bewrecked
We mooved sune effta to a howse
flim kamras ranged the roof
und odour windots belted twice
to maykit buglar-proof
He rote a sine upon a bored
ALL BUGLARS SHUT ON SITE
his spilling wasn’t very gud
but got the massage rite
No buglars daired frum that dye on
to trubble or trud neer
sew Godfish und our himster both
lived hippy — new no feer
Und Father’s yungist sun — my bro
he flurrished tale und fit
he joaned up whiff them kloppers und
dig allfoul weal at it
Mama steel drooms odd buglars —
tikes pals to comb her curves
she hypes the nisty boast gets
wot a morterer disurves
Wile me — I paws and pizzle
ober wot sum whysman rote —
win buglars tern to fantoms
its rite hurd to kitch a ghoat!