P.S. To Santa
by
Ivor Davis

 
This poem is written in a dialect still spoken in this region of the West Midlands of England, that is known as the Black Country. This unusual place name reflects its proud historical heritage at the heart of the industrial revolution and also the dirt and smoke that was produced by its many manufacturing enterprises.
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Dear Fairther Christmas
I thought as I'd write
Ter thank yer fer comin' ter visit.
We'd all 'ung we socks up,
An' our kid put a box up!
But that ay really fair, now is it?

On Christmas Eve night
We wus all tucked up tight,
Our Moll an' our kid an' then me.
The babby was theer
In th' ode basket cheer
It was 'is fust Christmas, yer see.

We tried ever so 'ard
But we couldn't drop off,
We was frittened in cairse as yo' caught we.
But it tairned owt all right,
So I thought as I'd write,
Ter thank yer fer all as yo' brought we

Yo ought ter 'a' sid
The sight of our kid
When 'e opened 'is eyes in the mornin';
Yo'd brought 'im a train
And a book o' John Wayne
An' a motor with lights an' an 'orn in!

An' that little black doll
As yo' brought fer our Moll
'Er 'ugged it as if 'er could crush it.
An' yo' ay 'arf a lamb
Ter gi'e her a pram,
It's jus' right fer the nipper ter push it.

I do mind ser much
As yo' forgot abowt me
'Cos t'others was ever ser graiteful
An' p'raps now I'm nine
I'm too ode t'ave mine
A' what they got was a pretty good plairteful

I asked for a scooter
Yo' thought I said 'ooter
'Cos yo' brought the babby a trumpet
But when I sid 'is glee
I day mind about me;
'E's 'appy. Soo I'll 'a' ter lump it.

 


Copyright © Ivor Davis.  All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of author.