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Edward Dyson - The Single-Hande
Work rating: Low

We’re more than partners, Ned `n` me, 
   Two sections permanently righted. 
Yiv seen us on the mooch, maybe, 
   Like remnants lovin`ly united. 
Ned`s only got one stump, the left; 
   By `appy chance I`ve got its brother, 
Of his two dukes he`s been bereft; 
My left was mauled, `n` had to go, 
It fortunitly `appens though, 
   I kept the other. 

Ned lost one ear, the left, `n` struth, 
   He dropped the correspondin` weeper. 
A Hun he crooled me lovely youth 
   By bombin` out me right `and peeper. 
He done a guy too with me ear, 
The right, `n` now I dunno whether 
`Twas Fate`s intention, butt it`s clear 
When trimmed each as the other`s mate 
`Twas up to us two, soon or late, 
   To get together. 

`Board ship there`s me like arf a peach, 
   `N` Ned`s the other arf, but soon it 
Strikes` Bill Carkeek that side by each 
  We makes a satisfact`rv unit. 
A `andy cobber on the ship 
   Fakes up for us a set of clutches 
That damps us firmly hip to hip. 
In seven minutes we can peg 
The mile out on a timber leg 
   `N` two steel crutches. 

We now go halves, like Si`mese twins, 
   `N` as a team I hold we`re bosker— 
The blighter on the street that grins 
   Has got to deal with Edwin-Oscar. 
At balls we two-step, waltz, `n` swing, 
   `N` proppin` walls no one has seen us. 
When at the bar I never ring 
The double on ole Ned. For both 
One hand must serve, `n`, on me oath, 
 It`s fair between us. 

We jolt one knife `n` fork, `n` find 
   One horse enough for both to ride on, 
And neither feller rides behind. 
  Some sez we put a pile of side on. 
Well, where`s the single-handed brace 
   Will take us on? We`ll put the peg in, 
Train fine, `n` jump, or box, or race, 
Or wrestle them; `n` more than that 
To clinch a match, so `elp me cat, 
   We`ll throw a leg in! 

He`s five feet eight, I`m little less; 
   He`s Roman, I`m a sort of Proddy; 
But no sectarian bitterness 
   Will disunite this sec`lar body— 
We`re hitched for good, we`re two in one. 
   Our taste`s the same, from togs to tipple. 
But, straight, it makes me sad, ole son, 
To think if he should croak or me, 
The pore bloke what is left might be 
   A bloomin` cripple.
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