POEM: God’s Own County

You can take the lass out of Yorkshire,
but you can’t take Yorkshire from ‘lass.
And for what it’s worth,
if you’re Yorkshire by birth,
you’re considered a whole different class.

We’re regarded exceedingly friendly.
We’ll chat to you if you’re a stranger.
But when we’re down south,
and we open our mouth,
they look at us like we’re a danger.

Everyone knows that we like what we say,
and we say what we bloody well like.
And if you’re in shock,
when we’re calling you “cock”,
you’d be ‘minded to just take a hike.

We’re down to earth folk in Yorkshire.
Renowned for our good sense of humour.
If they say that we’re flash,
and like spending our cash,
don’t believe it – it’s only a rumour.

They say you can tell a Yorkshireman.
But you certainly can’t tell him much.
And if “our lass”,
were to spend all his brass,
you can bet he’d be shouting “how much?!”

We enjoy a nice Yorkshire pudding,
it’s compulsory between you and me.
If we fancy a cuppa,
at dinner or supper,
there’s only one brew Yorkshire Tea.

There’s the world famous Betty’s Tea Rooms,
where tourists take afternoon tea.
They like to be posh,
and to spend all their dosh,
it’s a bit of a mystery to me.

They marvel at God’s Own County.
They travel though rain, snow and gales.
They go for a walk,
on the walls at York,
and a tour of the great Yorkshire Dales.

They’ll be taking a trip to the seaside,
to Scarborough and Filey no doubt.
And when I was a kid,
we were happy in Brid,
with a nice bag of chips to take out.

Wherever your life may lead you,
and wherever you may roam.
When at long last,
you see Emley Moor mast,
you know that you’re not far from home.