Wi e cheyngin fads o fowk
in modern days,
Electric blankids are e thing, so fashion says,
Ye can hev id doon ablow, or wrap id roond ye till ye glow
Boot ah still prefer a baggie in ma bed.
Till me a blankid's choost
a thing at diz a turn,
An ah'm ferd id micht go wrong an maybe burn,
Now a baggie's lek a pal, ivvur at yur beck an call,
Lyin waitin fan ye lowp intil yur bed.
If ye've any bits at's
cowlder than e rest,
Fey yur feet till bitties tucked ablow yur vest,
Ye can lay e baggie on, till a thochts o frost hev gone,
An ye've warmed up lek a pie inside yur bed.
Fan yur partner turns his
back an wilna speak,
Cuddle baggie then choost turn e ithur cheek,
All e comfort at ye need, near as good as herty feed,
Is at baggie lyin warmin up yur bed.
Boot id hez id's
drawbacks, rubber's known till rot,
An findin at yur bed's weet's no sa hot,
Wiz id baggie or yursell? Now id's eyzey for till tell,
If yur goons' dry, id's e bag at burst in bed.
So ah'm stickin til ma
baggie while ah can,
Mind, ah'd throw'd off if a warm an herty man
Asked me till be his wife, for e rest of ma good life,
Ah'd be gled till throw e baggie fey ma bed.