Not Much o’ a Man

He arrived bleedin’ late again – always off monkeyin’ around, playin’ the fool. Gallivanting around with that stench risin’ off ‘im. Could at least tip an ‘alf of whiskey down ‘is front, the way ‘e used ta – ‘ide the smell of those tramps, those little harlots ‘e’s been foxin’ round with.

 The nerve of ‘im, knowin’ I won’t kiss ‘im, so ‘e offers ‘is cheek – that’s what I call bloody cheek. Our ‘istory unravels behind closed doors, a long list of sins recalled and shouted out to ‘igh ‘eaven and down into Lucifer’s ear.

 ‘e arrived bleeding – me brother sorted ‘im out, the little ponce.