oi-yoy-yoy

I aint best pleased, those bloody gnomes They've only gone and nabbed my scones. The jam i squeezed, the cream i whipped and for all-a-that they've 'ad it! My rib-eye steak i guarded well, where it was i'd never tell, but those bastard, fucking gnomes ate it raw straight off the bone. I thought my jellied eels safe, my cockles jarred in salty grace, but they used their filthy mitts and that's the last of seen of it. The chocolate was the last to go, you'd wonder why, we'll never know. They took it all so woe is me for all they left was broccolli

At Blackdam ponds in Basingstoke there lived three swinger ducks. Inseparable, free liberals they'd sip at tea pretentiously in freshly-pressed clean tux. With handsome faces and eccentric graces they'd waddle in their three, waddling by as waddling does and chatting harmlessly. Though being of a quirky air few Waddles held 'em dear, as mothers stole their ducklings by whenever one appeared. "They aint for you!" the coots would say, the swans were most dismayed when they saw the swinger ducks were far more posh than they. Swinger ducks, i'd hope you know, whilst sipping Earl Grey tea would often read the Telegraph or recite poetry.