"English with hair on"

[Steven Willemsens]

Ann sits in the hook of the chamber.She is striking Burts brook.The radio stands on.
Suddenly she hears a lawight in the gang.The door goes open.There stud Burt.
Ann:"Haha,there are you.It is becans tide.From where come you flierefloyter."

Burt:"That goes you not on!"
Ann is up her toot getrapped.
She thinks she will fall fromherself,so she goes lying longout on the sofa and begins to snick.

Burt:"Stop,hold up off i shall give you a vige on your smool."
That is too much for Ann.She flies right from the sofa and balls her fist.
Ann:"I can no longer stand you out! I will take another man."

Burt:"Pfoe,thet shall me not spite. I have raids another leaf."
White like a like Ann falls fourover on the tapite.
Burt wrives in his hands from joy.

He does the door open and smites her after him too.
She seat her very bad out and she thinks lout up:"Ann,i will make myselffrom side."
She goes in the kitchen,takes a mess from the shoyf,but when she thinks of the blood and the pain,she has twayfels.

Ann:" I make my not from cant for a type like Burt! I will leaver stay an old vrayster the rest of my life and will never merry again."

The public can see Ann go and sit on the stool and take her strikework in her hands.

The lights go out and the gordines go too..."

[wim leenaerts]

Als je dit leuk vindt, moet je maar eens zoeken naar John O'mill. Een Nederlandse leraar Engels die vele gedichtjes in 'Dunglish' (hoe noemde Van Loock dat nu weer?) geschreven heeft.
Enkele voorbeeldjes:

Zijn bekendste:

A terrible infant called Peter
Once springled his bed with a Geter
His father got woost
Took hold of a cnoost
And gave him a pack on his meter

The ratmepper of Hamelin

Perhaps, my dear children,
perhaps you don't know,
what happened in Hamelin
a long time ago,

when people in houses
and people in flats
were troubled by mouses
and bitten by rats

The mouses they laughed at,
the rats they all feared
from the day that the crangs
in their bed-stays appeared.

Rats in their bed-stays,
rats in their socks,
in grandfather's broocksack
and baby's own box.

Rats bit their babies
and what's even worse
laddered their nylons
and licked their liqueurs,

ate up the curtains,
the capstock, the mats,
slaughtered the watchdogs
and killed off the cats.

Rats on the dremples,
rats in the hall,
building a nest
in their best parasol.

When Freiherr von Starker
found one in his vest
he drew out his parker
and wrote a protest,

which he read to the burghers,
the farmers and all,
who marched in procession
to Hamelin's Town Hall.

The city's wetholders,
the Council and Mayor
got quite in the war
by the shouts in the square.

"Make haste, you slampampers,
and rid us of rats,
before they build nests
in your gold-galloned hats".

"Oh dear" crooned the mayor,
"What are we to do?"
when a voice broke the silence
and said: "Keek a Boo!"

And in stepped a queebus
in the queerest of dress,
half yellow, half orange
in an old Turkish fez.

"You're worried, your worship"
the stoothasple spoke
and pulled forth a trombone
from under his cloak.

"Now what do I get
from the city's goldcoffer?
When I rid you of rats, chaps,
what do you offer?"

They stared at the snewsharn's
fantastic disguise,
the smiling red lips
and the laughing green eyes.

They stared at his hair
and they stared at his feet,
when a yule reached their ears
from the folk in the street.

"We offer" they stottered,
their thumbs in their collars,
"what's inside the coffer:
ten thousand dollars!"

"D'Accord!" said the stranger
and made them a bow,
"Open the door, chaps,
I'm starting right now!"

He walked through the streets,
while he blew his trombone
and out came the rats
at the very first tone.

He played them a rat's song,
full of good news
and they dartled behind him,
kissing his shoes.

Out of the houses
and out of the flats
came couples, came dozens,
came hundreds of rats.

Black rats and grey rats,
mixed coloured and brown
and followed the tooter
all over the town.

He walked to the river,
walked in - to his knees
and blew them the sweetest
of all ratsodies.

And down came the looders,
down the stile bank,
into the river,
blew bubbles and sank.

"You've seen, burgomaster"
the wonderman said,
"You've seen a ratmepper
earning his bread".

"I've done my duty,
I'm sure, you're content,
Now hand me the dollars,
please, my tractement!"

"You're not good snick"
said the mayor with a laugh,
"You shan't have a dollar,
not even a half!"

We'll give you a drink
and a ten cents cigar,
more then enough for
a bink like you are."

"I see", sissed the stranger,
green flames in his eyes,
"We'll see, burgomaster,
who's not good wise!"

""Goodbye, pockerliar,
no more shall we meet"
and he smacked back the door
and stepped out in the street.

Once more trailing music,
he slentered through town,
but this time - oh horror! -
the children came down.

In parties of three
and in pluckies and dozens,
alone or with sisters
and comrades and cousins.

And he with the trombone,
he blew them Good News,
Sweet Rhythm, Saint Louis
and Deep River Blues.

He told them to beebop,
to follow the band
and promised the napkids
a new Dixieland.

The mothers cried loudkails,
the fathers they swore
but their beebopping boofies
heard them nomore.

Betovered they followed
him and his blues,
followed in quick step
close on his shoes.

He led his jam-session,
this unholy clown,
forever more after
away from the town.

This was the last,
that was seen or was heard,
but the mayor was beheaded,
for HE broke his word.

Go, visit this Hamelin
with your school or alone,
but don't be a fool
and bring a trombone.

Yutt and Yull

"You're always blutt"
said Yull to Yutt,
"for reason you
ain't got no futt."

"Shut up, Old Trutt,"
said foul-mouthed Yutt,
"I gotta do
my midday-dutt."

The Prall

If, with all your grand decorum
you hope to fool me, piece of scorum,
you must be badly in the lorum
or, if sober, plain crank yorum.

With music blaring from your car,
in the keelsog of your great cigar,
I know you snob for what you are
a loud-mouthed, vulgar poon-barbar.

Pete's Knot

Three arrogant pupils of Class Five 3
attempted to drive the spot with me,
but I had 'm through
and before they knew,
I set 'em for Pete, Pete Snot, you see.

[MinkeVanHoof]

Als je dit leuk vindt, moet je maar eens zoeken naar John O'mill. Een Nederlandse leraar Engels die vele gedichtjes in 'Dunglish' (hoe noemde Van Loock dat nu weer?) geschreven heeft.
.

Je bedoelt zeker Fleminglish

[wim leenaerts]

Je bedoelt zeker Fleminglish

Dat is inderdaad hoe Van Loock dat noemde!
Maar ik heb ondertussen ontdekt dat Dunglish de (of 'ook' een) 'officiële' term is: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunglish

[johanvandenbosch]

funny as hell

OMG, schitterend onderwerp. Het is niet beleefd te lachen met de fouten van anderen, maar toch...SUPER!

[Jynthe]

Als studente Engels zijn deze tekstjes echt hilarisch om te lezen!
Waarschijnlijk krijg ik tijdens mijn toekomstige carrière nog vaak te maken met soortgelijk 'Engels met haar op'!

Een grappige situatie die ik van een andere leerkracht Engels hoorde. Hij nam een woordenschattestje af bij de klas en een van de vragen was; 'Wat is de benaming voor een vleermuis in het Engels?', waarop een van de leerlingen qua originaliteit het onderste uit de kan wist te halen! Zijn antwoord: 'Floddermouse'