Lancashire, North of England, 1960 by Elizabeth Young - Lancashire Poetry

On Sunday afternoon

The Vicar comes to tea.

On Sundays we has butter,

And sugar in us tea.

I reckon ee does alright,

For everywhere ee goes,

They feed him chocolate biscuits,

And fire brightly glows.

We ave to watch us manners,

Or mother will be shamed.

We pretend that were not ungry,

Or sugar cubes fair game.

Ee sits int comfiest chair,

Next to jellies wi blobs of cream.

A certain tension fills the air

Were mums ham sandwiches ad been.

Me father doesnt like im.

Says: Vicars not from round ere.

He has a funny accent;

Drinks a funny kind of beer.

Ee wears a coat of wool,

Knows every sin Ive done.

Decides the fate Ill suffer,

As he eyes a cherry bun.

Ee likes me younger sister,

Shes not clumsy like me.

She never chomps the celery,

Or asks why God made fleas.

Me Grandma saves er sherry,

In case hell ave a drop.

Me da says its a waste,

To touch such sober lips.

The Vicar doesnt say much

But ees treated good and proper.

Everyone knows ees above us;

ee dresses like a dapper.

So maybe when I grow up,

A Vicar I will be,

And make other folk grow ungry,

When I come fo tea.