Come Flobby Flarnett, Lard My Bog

Come Flobby Flarnett, lard my bog.
Eh, don't just stand there, spurt yer frog!
Get it out lad, let's be seein' ya:
Jenkins did, aye, an' Bradley Senior.

Nay, owt worth trillin's nowt to me.
I muzzled whelks at twenty-three.
Aye, 'appen I'd 've crushed me burtons
'Ad Auntie Jimn't graded t' curtains.

You'll wipe that snarl, right, twice a week
And mind you don't embalm the sheikh.
I'm all for smearin' guests with muck, see
But not so's that their jaw gets stuck, see?

There's pies for lads as shows some nouse,
And chews me craddocks, back of t' 'ouse.
Yer cousin Sludd, now there's a case.
Folks grew their parsnips in 'is face.

On Fridays yer'll be, like as not,
Accessory to a murder plot;
But don' go tartin' up in leather
Not till the Vicar's polished t' weather.

'Tis muckin' in as gets things done, like
(Yer Uncle's cakes was rarely bun-like).
Well I recall now, in the army,
I spoke such verse they 'ad to tar me.

Aye, them were men's times, count on that.
But bogs is bogs, and I'm too fat.
So when tha's done with bog and gravy
We'll all pretend you're in the Navy.
'Ow 'bout that?