They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)

Cycling past buisness girls on his way through Camden town
between towering grey buildings and tourists that frown

The lights turns to red and like a one legged man at the curb
he drifts off to a land that to some, seems absurb

Where honey-eyed tales of piglet and Pooh
are driven  by toads tooting, ****- ****- poo

Peddling along the reeling, rolling,rambeling road some drunkard guy made
on famiular BBC air waves his voice often played

Through rich green ridings, wild moor and dales
2-50 stands the church clock that so sweetly never fails

Hatless on Ilkley, bathed and bathed in York
tea-time fancies at Harrogate, whilst watching like some Kes pearched hawk

Nodding and humming to  sounds of the Brighouse and Rastric bands
and still finding time to paddle a little,
                                                                                 on sun drenched Gigglewick sands

Red turns to green as he wobbles and peddles away down Boris's yellow brick road
To Settel, for supper with
                                                       Raty
                                                            ­         Mole
                                                            ­                         Badger
                                                                ­                                           and Toad

They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And all round Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
Down there to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s County Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling near Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all do hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
© PB 2\5\2016.  Slightly Amended 14\4\2023.

When a butterfly dies in the Amazon and the horizon's at half past three and the bell rings for ***** to do her tricks,
that's the place I'm unlikely to be.

There's a saying they say, but I'm not sure why and I'm unsure as to what it might mean,
so I pay all my taxes to Elizabeth and swear by 'God save the Queen'

If the monkey that bothers me bothers you then don't bother to bother me at all
I am sure you've got your own monkeys and equally sure that you all have a ball.

If in poetry there must be a story
some sacrifice maybe some glory
then
nail me to the door
I won't write anymore or any more or Demi Moore, Roger Moore, Ilkley Moor and sometimes more but always with a touch of semaphore to keep the sailors happy.