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July 27, 2012



We ear yer goin’ overt’hill,

A wek on Sunday, ay but still.

We ope fer yer sake yer don’t see rain,

and that young Jack, he don’t complain!

Ow did ‘is holiday in Portugal go?

Ow was flyin’ – did he let yer know?

Our sen, we plan to go to 429,

next Sunday cumin, if it’s fine…

We’ll squeeze it in, our diary’s full,

yer know fer uzz life’s owt but dull!

More’s the pity, more’s the pain,

That on the lavvy we both now strain!

We’ve matchin piles, now ain’t that cute!

Well it is til pain gets quite acute!

Ear, I must tell thee before I forgeet,

I’m in a poets society, yeh, that’s reet!

Yer don’t avt’ live int’ neighbourhood,

Yer’ve just got t’send in poems a bit good.

Thi like em best wi’ a Lancashire theme.

Prap’s you being overt’hill is a bit extreme!

Tha could bi sen as t’enemy, tha knows!

Tha might av a bit of a Pennines glow!

Yer cannot foo these Lancashire men,

Yer’d bi sen as t’traitor –  now der yer ken?

Yer might av bin born whert red rose grows,

But tha lives whert white rose surrendered tha knows!









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