Jus’ ’cos I don’ speak proper, don’ mean I got no feelin’s,
I knew a Social Worker — she ’ad some;
And I still know a wide-boy, knee deep in dodgey dealin’s
Who cried his eyes out when ’e lost ’is mum.

An’ I should fink that Hay-rabs and such like we despises,
Feel sim’lar when their kiddies catch the flu’;
It’s only nat’ral, innit? — all shapes and bloody sizes,
At bottom, mate, they’re much like me and you.

Still East is East, and so on— though I don’ mind a curry,
But who wants daughters marryin’ a Wog?
The wife says I’m a racist— but I don’ ’effin’ worry,
I wouldn’t feed Pie-ella to a dog.

An’ I’ve a slight suspicion, from speaking to some wallah
Whats livin’ in the gaff they got upstairs,
Thet there’s a pope what tells ‘em —they call him ‘ayatollah’—
Thet we should stick with ours and them with theirs.

Suits me— but there’s some people, a nosy-parker wanker,
What lives in ’Ampstead, lah-de-dah polite,
Writes rubbish in the papers, and I would kindly thank ’er
To stuff it, lady.  We’ll get on alright.