Roast Beef and Yorkie Puds

(Sundays) Each street sounded of Lawn mowers, laughter, bicycles and bells The odd car being revved up And oh my! The heavenly smells Each towns aroma was roast beef Gravy and yorkie puds When hungry tummies with baited breaths Sneaked to the shops for sweets and other forbidden goods Latch dogs roamed free in packs or joined in with us kids Depositing delights, creating awful smelly skids Ken Dod and his Diddy men, duster in his hand 'isn't it a nice day!' as he skipped through Diddy land 'eat up all your Brussels now!' What a ruddy shame That dog hates them as much as me Traitor! Should be his name Sneak off down the brick fields for some fun a fight or swim Come home filthy and lie About 'where on earth you've been?' Four in a bath to stew and wash each others backs Waters at a shortage now, unlike the dreaded smacks Off to bed cross Lino floor to reach the bottom bunk Can't wait to grow up now And be a rebellious punk