One
Schooled at bloody Sherborne, One tried to put a curb on
me North–and-South, or, as he would say, mouth.
I wondered why One one’d. I’s were positively shunned.
Different source, old boy. Me? H.P. He? Soi.
My o’s were solid ow’s. We came to blows, had rows.
I started dropping h’s that I hadn’t done for ages.
I taught One how to spit. One taught me that caps fit
but one don’t need to, and that the posh bleed, too.
One became a real bruv, but died behind the wheel
of his fashionable Mini, before I’d time to din
some Cockney rhymes in him, spend Bird Lime
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