Old Brooklyn in rhyme,

            In the language of its time.                 

DE GOOD OL’ DAYS

I’m gonna tell youse a story ‘bout my yoot,

            Evyting I says to ya is de troot,

Cause Brooklyn’s de place whea I’m fum,

            De way I tawk youse maybe tink I’m dumb,

But to dem dat dares to say I’m tick,

            I sez I’ll hitchyouse wit a stick,

Twenny‑foist and Fift ona secon flaw,

            Mudda, fadda, eight kids an roaches galaw,

But dere weren’t neva no mice,

            De rats ate dem; it weren’t nice,

We was unnerneat de Fift Avenoo El,

            To be hoid youse hadda yell,

Dis col watta flat a terlet ain’t had,

            Youse wen out back when youse hadda go bad,

Dat outhouse we shared wit dis punk,

            When he did his ting it really stunk,

On de roof he kep dese boids,

            And dey stunk too, take my woids,

We useta gota Ebbets to see de games,

            Sometimes we’d even take some dames,

But Dem Bums would neva win,

            De way dey played was de bigges sin,

At woik I terled all kindsa ways,

            An I’ve moved up in de woild dese days,

My bestest goil down de block I wed,

            Lon Gisland’s whea I den moved my bed,

Now evyting’s diffent in so many ways,

            Nuttin’s like de good ol’ days,

De neighborhood ain’t no more like I said,

            And youse knows dis dialec’s jus about dead.

1998