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A Triflin' Tale by Jenny S Stewart

Wan efternoon at back o fower fan last school bell hed rung,
Yowng Check Gunn wiz makin homm, his heyd an shoolders hung,
Him and Wullie Budge hed focht, they'd rolled aboot e park,
Till gutters clartered a thur cleyz, now both thur mams wid bark.

Check skulked in through e open door on tip-toe, trying till hide,
Boot needn've bothered mam came ben an landed at his side,
She took wan look an started rantin fit till blow a fuse,
Transpired at Check wiz due a lickin, didna come as news.

By e time she'd feenished skelpin Checkie's dock wiz sore,
She stomped off ben e hoose still flamin, slammed e kitchen door,
Check stood still till rump stopped smertin, gave mam time till cool,
Afore he'd see if she'd a piece for howngry lad fey school.

At last he plucked his courage up an entered mam's domain,
A lovely smell seeped roond aboot, he soon forgot his pain,
For mam wiz meltin chelly doon, a sponge cake cut in hownks,
a tin o' fruit sood on e sink all diced in peedy chownks.

She's makin trifle! Boy! Oh Boy! he slevvered at e thocht
O custard satin-smooth on top an creym new fey coo brocht,
Then mam broke intil reverie "Yowng trosk, id's no for ye,
Yur aunty Meyg an owncle Sannig's comin for thur tea."

She handed him a piece o loff an marg till fill his bowg,
An gave um scraps an bonns an things till fatten up e dowg,
E trifle done, she set id in e press oot o herm's way,
An gied aboot hur ithur tasks, she'd hed a busy day.

Fan Checkie came back in again e kitchen wiz deserted,
He meyde strecht for e kitchen press e boyag wiz richt airted,
Wan finger itchin till be dipped till see if trifle's good,
On seecind lick he heard a sound an swung roond far he stood.

His jaiked sleeve caught edge o bowl, id cowped aboot e playss,
Wi fruit an chelly up e walls, ah wish ye'd seen e meyss,
Mam's mesterpiece in thousand bits wi Checkie in e middle,
E tin-hat on his day's bad deeds, he's really in a fiddle.

He's weel tuned up fore mam came ben, he isked an cowned an bawled,
Ah widna dare pit doon on peypur things at he wiz called,
E only thing at saved his skin wiz phone call fey e toon,
His aunt an owncle couldna come, thur car hed broken doon.

He didna get a lickin for e puddin, mam said gluff
O bowl o trifle smashed roond feet wiz punishment enough,
Boot checkie saved his poaked money, thirty pence a week,
An bocht his mam a bran' new dish as pennance for his cheeck.


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