Alas for my poor Father's mother tongue,
A proper Norfolk patter in my mouth.
It spoke and sang for me when I was young,
That merry denizen of England's south.
It useter go wif me in t’ pram on t’ way
to nurs’ry school, and wif Mum up t’ shops
Ech day and to t’ sea on hollyday
(Demure, non-rhotic “r’s”; no glottal stops).
Now looking back, I feel a deep despond
To think of my companion’s dying day.
I cruelly dropped and drowned it in the Pond
En route between old London and L.A.
I cannot summon up its pungent zest,
Lost like “u” in "neighborly" and "savor."
It's buried in my head. I now fear lest
Its exhumation has a Cockney flavor.