This poem is written in a Geordie accent. Some people (especially Americans) won't understand because I've done it in over the top broad Geordie... Erm, for those of you who don't know, a Geordie is someone from Newcastle in the North East of England.
“Miss, I’m terribly sorry to say,
That I have to take your son,
He has to be punished you see
For the things that he has done.”
“You cannot take him officer,
He hasn’t done nowt wrong,
Please dain’t take him officer,
You cannot take our Jon.
There’s not a man in all the North
With owt against our Jon.
And if there is I’d like to see him
Take wor Anthony on.”
“He beat up an old man
And took all of his money.”
“Aye, and that was his own fault!
He was looking at me funny.”
“Ar, what a load o’ rubbish!
What on earth are you on?”
“If I were on drugs Miss Liddle,
I’d have got them from your Jon.
We’ve got him caught on CCTV,
Not to mention an eye witness,
Who saw him quite clearly,
Going about his illegal business.
We’ve got him down for robbery, miss,
And for supplying drugs.”
“I never should’ve let him
Hang ‘round with all them thugs…
Me poor bairn got sucked in,
With a terrible crowd,
Oh, the Trotters an’ the Baker boys,
He shouldn’t have been allowed.
When I caught ‘im smokin’
I just thought what the hell,
Couldn’t tell ‘im not to,
‘Cause he knows I smoke mesel’
I should’ve took ‘im down South
‘Cause they say it’s nice down there,
Hey! Don’t put hand cuffs on ‘im!
No! Don’t you dare!”
“He beat up another man, miss,
Waiting at a bus stop.”
“Aye, only ‘cause the idiot bloke,
Was wearing a Sunderland top!”
“Oh, Jon I’ll miss yer hinny,
Don’t forget to call.”
“Shut yer big fat gob man ma’
Else I’ll do ye in n’all.”
