Fahnd 'im lyin' int middle o' t'street bruised an' battered from t'tramplin' feet. Ee'd crawled aht from some gutter an' them cries tha' ee did utter almost like a knife through butter cut mi quick an' deep.
'Is broken wings ah tried to treat gently praying that ee'd be reyt. But when 'is cry became a stutter t'world rolled dahn its shutters an' rahnd mi someone muttered: " 'is prospects ain't 'alf bleak".
An' that poor lost little 'eap ah cradled but coun't weep, til mi arms discerned a flutter. So in mi chest ee'll see the summer from that 'ollow haven like no other where ee can safely sleep.