Olduns and Younguns

Theym always tellin’ us

that we dow arf av it easy

these days, us younguns.

They think we’m soft

as a bottle

of council pop.


The stories always start the saerme.

‘We day av that when ar waz a kid’,

as if ta mek us feel bad for um.

‘Yow dow know yowm born,



There was no rigmarole

over ya faggots an pays.

If ya day eat it, yow got

‘Gerrit down ya wazzin,

or yow’ll get a threarping.’

Yow’d be sore if ya day.


When they needed the bog,

they ad ta gew outside.

Even at winter.

No wonder they’ve all got piles.


No bog roll.

Just the paerpa from Sund’y.

Mar Grandad said his muckers

ud read the news of the werld

off his bum

on a Mund’y.


It was moiles ta school,

but they day catch the buz,

they ad ta walk it.

Warr’a cowin fuss.


They left school

at fifteen

but they ay saft

or brain dead,

loike others think.

Theym skilled in the donnies

an sharp in the yed.


They gi’me stories un taerls,

but they teach me important lessons tew.

There’s one I try to remember

wherever I yappen t’goo.

Ar’m told ter be prowd of where ar’m from,

prowd of what it was.

Dow let anyone mix it up,

yow bay a Brummie.

Yow’m from the Black Country.


Rob Edwards