Freddie
They’re an queer lot, Yorkshire fork
- Tha knors, the way they talk.
Well, I thought I’d met one of ‘em, nerm of Fred.
But Fred’s not Yorkshire born,
Despite ‘is funny torn.
E’s Lincolnshire from t’toes to t’top of t’ead.
He’s a proper Lincoln feller
With a belly that’s reet yeller
But as a lad were tekken north, where men are men,
Where women go without,
And you don’t do owt for nowt
And if you do do owt, tha does it for thi’sen.
‘E likes to ‘ave a smork
‘E knows how to tek a jork
Just as well when merts like me are on t'floor
Cos if ‘is words I miss
I allus tek the piss
But with Fred it’s easy come and easy gor
He works ‘ard all through t’night
And arrives at t’pub first light
To slerke ‘is thirst with several pints of cork.
For this blork ‘e sups no erles
- Apart from times ‘e ferls.
Then ‘e’s a real, reet Yorkshire pisshead, that’s no jork.
Why does ‘e work so ‘ard,
Stacking boxes in the yard?
‘E grafts all night and wants no sympathy
‘E staggers out of bed
Just to get a pat on t’ead
I’d say ‘e just wants to break free.
But ‘e’s more than crertes to lift
And packages to shift -
There’s drivin’ through the night both near and far.
If ‘e wants ‘is pay to earn
‘E’s got office cords to learn.
(I thought young lad were learning the guitar.)
‘Is first name’s really Mark
And it’s just a silly lark
That’s ‘is nickname comes from t’singer blork in Queen
But Freddie’s not a queer
Even though ‘e drinks no beer
‘E’s a lady-killer, keen and lean and mean.
Yes, ‘e’s got the teeth to flash
And until he shaved his tash
The two men looked the serme, like pair of gloves.
But this Fred lifts no shirts
He prefers an arse in skirts -
It’s a crazy little thing that we call love
Oh yes, ‘e likes the girls
And ‘e loves to fondle curls
With female ‘earts t’bugger likes to toy
He just wants it all
But he doesn't want to fall
‘E’s just a good old-fashioned lover boy.
As a lad ‘e used to run
But now them days is done
Them borns is creakin’ when ‘e teks an ‘ike.
All the exercise ‘e terkes
Is liftin’ lords o’ crertes
Though sometimes ‘e just likes to ride ‘is bike.
They say ‘e’s Sleight by nerme
And ‘e’s pretty slight in frerme.
I doubt if he is over 5 foot 4
But if ‘e has the thought
That yon blork there’s a scrort
It isn’t long ‘fore t’bugger’s out the door.
I can still remember
It were one day last September
When a drunk refused to leave, just stood and cussed.
Our Fred were on ‘is feet
And yon scrort were out on’t street,
And that is how another one bit the dust.
Well, ‘e wants to go back ‘orm
E’s not content to use ‘is phorn
To the dales ‘e often talks of going back.
But Freddie, just think on -
Forget you when you’re gone?
You Mark my words, young Fred - Sleight chance of that.
They’re an queer lot, Yorkshire fork
- Tha knors, the way they talk.
Well, I thought I’d met one of ‘em, nerm of Fred.
But Fred’s not Yorkshire born,
Despite ‘is funny torn.
E’s Lincolnshire from t’toes to t’top of t’ead.
He’s a proper Lincoln feller
With a belly that’s reet yeller
But as a lad were tekken north, where men are men,
Where women go without,
And you don’t do owt for nowt
And if you do do owt, tha does it for thi’sen.
‘E likes to ‘ave a smork
‘E knows how to tek a jork
Just as well when merts like me are on t'floor
Cos if ‘is words I miss
I allus tek the piss
But with Fred it’s easy come and easy gor
He works ‘ard all through t’night
And arrives at t’pub first light
To slerke ‘is thirst with several pints of cork.
For this blork ‘e sups no erles
- Apart from times ‘e ferls.
Then ‘e’s a real, reet Yorkshire pisshead, that’s no jork.
Why does ‘e work so ‘ard,
Stacking boxes in the yard?
‘E grafts all night and wants no sympathy
‘E staggers out of bed
Just to get a pat on t’ead
I’d say ‘e just wants to break free.
But ‘e’s more than crertes to lift
And packages to shift -
There’s drivin’ through the night both near and far.
If ‘e wants ‘is pay to earn
‘E’s got office cords to learn.
(I thought young lad were learning the guitar.)
‘Is first name’s really Mark
And it’s just a silly lark
That’s ‘is nickname comes from t’singer blork in Queen
But Freddie’s not a queer
Even though ‘e drinks no beer
‘E’s a lady-killer, keen and lean and mean.
Yes, ‘e’s got the teeth to flash
And until he shaved his tash
The two men looked the serme, like pair of gloves.
But this Fred lifts no shirts
He prefers an arse in skirts -
It’s a crazy little thing that we call love
Oh yes, ‘e likes the girls
And ‘e loves to fondle curls
With female ‘earts t’bugger likes to toy
He just wants it all
But he doesn't want to fall
‘E’s just a good old-fashioned lover boy.
As a lad ‘e used to run
But now them days is done
Them borns is creakin’ when ‘e teks an ‘ike.
All the exercise ‘e terkes
Is liftin’ lords o’ crertes
Though sometimes ‘e just likes to ride ‘is bike.
They say ‘e’s Sleight by nerme
And ‘e’s pretty slight in frerme.
I doubt if he is over 5 foot 4
But if ‘e has the thought
That yon blork there’s a scrort
It isn’t long ‘fore t’bugger’s out the door.
I can still remember
It were one day last September
When a drunk refused to leave, just stood and cussed.
Our Fred were on ‘is feet
And yon scrort were out on’t street,
And that is how another one bit the dust.
Well, ‘e wants to go back ‘orm
E’s not content to use ‘is phorn
To the dales ‘e often talks of going back.
But Freddie, just think on -
Forget you when you’re gone?
You Mark my words, young Fred - Sleight chance of that.
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