Coo-sh Potato

What’s a coo-sh potato?
Me mam din’t know,
ah thought it were French,
Mr B——— said not
bur Americans agreed they
were pomme de terres
er this variety
on the show we watched
at the weekends, five
er us crammed
like tinned veg onter are
very own coo-shay.
See are they delight
t’ teach the little guttersnipe.

Guttersnipe

Thi face, someweer between a Sunday
roast an’ a bag
er mashings, weren’t as bonny

as, seh, Tom Cruise’s, though in stature
thar were alike. A trip
t’ cinema on a wet autumn neet

tha suggested I walk in t’ gutter
t’ emphasise thar height
and we set among tombstones rowed

like seats at t’ Odeon, the bells
of St Mary’s neutered,
her spire lit not from heaven

but by a security leet paid for by t’ poor
box and bought from
B&Q for twelve pahnds ninety-nine

pence separated wi’ a decipled point.
We lacked mutual
enthusiasm for turning t’ dead

and thar thought tha were doing me
a favour when really
I were nivver in t’ gutter til I met thee

and thi girlfriend t’ following week
at t’ drama thy invited
me to; it worked, she were jealous.