Hobbo: The French are a romantic bunch aren’t they Dauphy?
Dauphy: We are, why?
Hobbo: I thought that I’d move away from funny poems and try my hand at something a bit more romantic.
Dauphy: Mon Dieu!
Hobbo: So, I’ve written a love poem.
Dauphy: This has trouble written all over it! Let’s have a look then…
A Yorksher love poem Tha'll get me pension, when I die and 'tools inside me shed. You are the gravy in me pie the girl I chose to wed. Tha's like the salt, I put on 'chips The froth that warms me beer a lass that wobbles when she strips to who there's no compeer. And tha's the lass what 'ad me kids and set me 'eart a thuddin'. As solid as two dustbin lids the air in 'Yorksher puddin'. Tha's the mush in mushy peas The fluff in fluffy slippers What taught me 'bout the birds 'n'bees The girl that cooks me kippers. Tha's the match what lit me fire The stubble on me chin Who dances like a tumble drier The nine in feminine. So, me love, rough as you are 'tis death will force our partin' Tha's more use norra flashy car Despite tha' flippin' fartin'. Yorksher: Yorkshire tha'll: you will me: my tha's: you are compeer: compare 'eart: heart Yorkshire pudding: A savoury'pudding' eaten with roast dinners norra: than a
Dauphy: The mush in mushy peas!
Hobbo: I know, it’s good isn’t it?
Dauphy: Has Mrs Hobbo seen this?
Hobbo: No. Not yet.
Dauphy: Well, don’t show her it, or you’re dead!
Hobbo: Why? I thought she’d like it.
Dauphy: Where do I start?…