” ‘ate ‘im up, ‘e did,” the storyteller said,
‘an spat ‘is bones out wicky-ticky tat.
‘e hewsed ‘is skin to line ‘is truckle bed,
‘is tongue to scrape ‘is toes there hon the mat.
Hit goes to show youse, hwoman, man an’ buoy,
that dragons isn’t naught to trifle ’bout.
An’ nuffin’ in the hworld, not purty gurl ner buoy,
kin stan’ ’em up agin a dragon’s snout.”
“Saint George did,” so I said, “and that’s the truth.
He killed himself a dragon, whiff a sword.
The princess loved him, so they say, forsooth!
And George got all the girls and all the hoard!”
His breath smelled like a dragon’s when he hissed,
” be ware the stoory-teller when ‘e’s pissed!”