We’ve been to a meetin’
We've been to a meetin'
Mother Warton, were a little old lady,
Who lived, out in 'sticks, up on t'ill,
Survivin' on just widder's pension,
Wi' barely enough fer 'er bills.
She lived there, with one of 'er daughters,
As 'ad flitted the nest, then come back,
But what they were lackin' in comfort,
In make do an' mend, they'd a knack.
One Winter's mornin' near Christmas,
Mother Warton were standin' at sink,
Wi' wash basin full of 'ot watter,
And bottles, devoid of their drink.
Wi' a blunt knife, she scraped off the labels,
What 'ot watter, the glue were undoin',
When Hobbo, breezed into 'er kitchen,
And said,"Mum, what the 'eck are you doin'?"
"We've been to a meetin'," she tells 'im,
"Up at the old village 'all,
It's diff'rent bins fer paper an' bottles,
They're not to be mixed up, at all."
"That in't what they mean," smiles our Hobbo,
"Tha' dun't need to scrape off the labels."
"We've been to a meetin'," insists she,
And Hobbo could not turn the tables.
Come the next mornin', it's bin day,
Hobbo, in jim-jams, well worn,
Creeps down to 'end of 'er driveway,
Waitin' fer 'bin men, at dawn.
They arrived, ten o'clock, bright an' early,
A two man, go slow operation,
And Hobbo, wi' teeth all a chatt'rin',
Explained to the men, 'situation.
Some funny old looks he were given,
Like a picnic, gone short of a pie,
Till he told 'em 'is reasons for askin',
Then, they laughed and they cottoned on why.
She did not 'ave to scrape off the labels,
And this 'ad come straight from 'osses gob,
So, wi' Hobbo now grateful ter 'bin men,
He slipped 'em a couple of bob.
Hobbo goes in fer 'is breakfast,
His slippers all wet from the slush,
"Mum, I've got thee good news from the bin men,"
Says he, a big grin on 'is mush.
"Tha' dun't 'ave to scrape off the labels,"
He tells 'er by way of a greetin',
"I've spoken ter 'bin men, as told me,
Tha' must've got wires crossed at meetin'."
"What do they know?" responds Mother Warton,
"We've been to a meetin'," she said,
"It's their job mum," retorts Hobbo, laughin'
But, he cun't get it out on 'er head.
Mother Warton huffs and folds t'arms,
In that stubborn old lass type o' way,
"Well, I'll still be scraping," she tells 'im,
And she still does the same ter this day.
That is until, sadly, we lost 'er,
Now she's scraping the labels up there,
Because they went to a meetin' in Warton,
And God would not cross 'er, wouldn't dare.