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Thomas Newlove Dec 2015
One often 'as problems sleepin'
In ways which affect ones 'ealth
But 'ow can one deal wit 'out but weepin'
When one 'as a fear of their self
Tweet verse uses the exact amount of characters allowed for a tweet on Twitter, no more, no less.
H L Godden Sep 2015
The sky lies on the horizon
like a smoke-coloured cat
draped over a sofa of heather,
purple as pansies but sharper,
scratching against boots and paws.
It washes across the landscape
in a swathe of paint,
broken by breadcrumb rocks.

Up here, the wind gallops,
almost spins me round
to face home again.
Water framed by narrow paths
like battlements, flicking
onto grey stones and sand,
smell of earth, damp air.

Our path drops down
like the side of a ship and the dog,
ginger beacon in a sea of bog-grass,
skids on his front paws.
I shuffle sideways, crab steps
slipping from mud to puddle.
Paul Butters Aug 2015
I took her for some fish and chips,
We had a reight good time.
The two of us kept locking lips,
It really int a crime.

But then she saw this pilot bloke:
It really wasn’t fair.
Though I’m a super Trekkie clerk,
She saw me as a square.

What she saw in him I’ll never know,
There really was no reason.
But off she went with him, oh no!
It felt just like a treason.

Those fish and chips are getting cold,
With no-one there to eat ‘em.
Them mushy peas have gone to waste, be told,
But she prefers to cheat ‘em.

There are more fish in the sea they say,
And now I’m talking females.
Every dog will have his day,
I’d better watch my emails.

Paul Butters
A humorous love poem!
Evangeline Ashe Aug 2015
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.
Joe Woodhead Oct 2014
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream,
as if somehow the county, relates to their regime?
Trying to push on others their far right views,
and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos
cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be,

I do love a bit of local pride...
maybe to revel in the comfort it provides,
and even though stereotypes say we're tight,
as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right),
But I'd rather that, than be uptight,
like a stereotypical southerner might

I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie,
“England has a bottom half,
but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north”
The North in the south means desolation,
A cultural wasteland with deserted stations,
a place built on violent, aggressive foundations,
With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations,
Nothing that comes close to a nation....

But that's not what I see,
To be from the north means good fish and chips,
with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips,
I see people willing to lend a hand,
A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop
that you never planned,
It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll,
Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal,
Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl.
We should still all have a similar goal,
To have a good time,
and not hurt a soul

Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide,
but I'll always welcome people from the other side,
Acceptance is not sin,
and if you let it,
it generally ends up with a win : win

What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
Poem about the North South divide in the United Kingdom.

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