(This poem is in a Cockney accent. Good luck trying to figure it out.)

I till you wot I fink,
But don't 'old your bref,
I fink it's a sad fing
That there ain't none lef'.

"Good riddin's to em'"
I 'eard some peopl' s'y.
They don't care a fig.
Hain't that a'ways the w'y?

They loved 'em, they did,
Whul they was around',
But now that they hain't
They talk 'em all down.

It's the loy'lty!
It's gone now, and far!
It don't matter to them.
They're traitors, they are.

All o' these peopl'...
Peopl'! All they know...
They call themselves decent
And act like it's so.

It's a shame, that it is,
But me eyes is still dry.
I won't blub for a fing
Whut hain't gonna die.

But then I hain't 'eartless,
I won't turn me back,
Like them whut runs
When it's lookin' black.

But then, as I  said,
I don't know why
I should weep for a fing
Like a baker's meat pie.