Gawd bless ya, good day’s dawnin’ to yer son.
Me name’s Ron, AKA; Ronnie the Hat.
What’s that yer eatin, me old currant bun?
Pie mash and liquor? I’ll ‘ave some a that.
I Fancy a pig’s ear or ten right now,
Down the old rub-a-dub; you comin too?
I’ve ‘eard there’s gonna be a bull and cow;
An argy bargy with the Croydon crew.
Some fuckin slag from across the water
Is ziggin and zaggin my fork and knife,
Bad north and southin’ my bricks and mortar
And threatening me with a drum and fife.
I’m gonna postage on his lump of lead
And I aint stopping till he’s well brown bread.
There’s something Pete Tong with my watch and chain;
It’s bothering the saucepans and trouble,
Givin me old ‘arris a Micheal Caine,
And causing all kinds of Barney Rubble.
Lads on the manor take the gypsy’s kiss,
Giraffing at ‘ow I rabbit and pork;
They mug me right off; I’m Moby of this;
I can’t even go for a Bowl of Chalk
Without being followed by Gawd forbids
Bubbling behind me ‘ammer and tack;
I orange and pear me own teapot lids
Are Penn’orthin’ with ‘em, just for the crack,
And it’s making me feel bow an arra;
The ‘amptons need to get off me barra.
I went to the quack’s and he said to me:
Stan, can you tell me when all this began?
I told ‘im I want a cup of Jack Dee,
And I’m Ronnie; who the fuckin’ell’s Stan?
No sir, he said, it’s all on computer
You’re Stan; Stanley Smith is your proper name,
Then he butchered ‘is pistol and shooter,
And said, ah, these symptoms here are the same
As yours, and the long and short of it is,
The rare condition you’ve somehow acquired
Has a name: it’s known as Cockneyitis;
The last case recorded has long expired,
The affliction appears unbeatable,
And, it would seem, sadly, untreatable.
Gawd blimey, would you Adam and Eve it?
I don’t even know how I jellied eel,
I’ve been rabbitin’ a pile of Tom Tit,
Ronnie the Hat aint even Ian Beale,
The quack says he ‘asn’t got a Scooby,
He’s sent me away with some Jimmy Hills,
I need a few Nelsons and a ruby,
But I can’t mix it with the Jack and Jills.
I’m better of going to uncle Ned;
Cockneyitis has made me jittery;
This orange peeling in me crust of bread
Is a diabolical liberty.
I wasn’t born near the sound of Bow bells,
But I can’t help calling ‘em Auntie Nells.