A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
You are surrounded
You are surrounded
The setting for this little tale,
A town between Bradford and Leeds
Where chips cost three quid for a bucket
And birds with no dentures succeed.
A phone call from 'blue set it off,
Some idiot were firing a gun
Out of a front bedroom winder,
A damn dang'rous way ter 'ave fun.
Sergeant in 'cop shop were angry,
This were his 'ome patch after all,
He didn't want a nut wi' a firearm
On 'run like a loose cannonball.
He needed some experts on 'case,
The firearm team from 'big city,
'ardened and ruthless and lethal,
None of 'em what you'd call pretty.
Off they all went in a convoy
Armed up to their rooftops wi' guns,
Shields and ballistic equipment
Pork pies and jam butties by 'ton.
On the estate it were quiet,
Perhaps this offender 'ad fled,
No sign of life at the 'ousehold,
Maybe, they 'ad just gone to bed.
This were the firearms team unit,
The creme de la creme, the top crack,
One of them noticed a light on
When taking a piss round the back.
Quickly, the 'ole 'ouse were covered,
Completely sealed off, good and tight.
A voice on a megaphone sounded,
Authorit'ive, clear in the night.
Give yerssen up, yer surrounded,
Throw down yer guns and come out,
We know who you are, you're a bad 'un,
Don't give us no trouble nor nowt.
All of this noise and commotion
Woke up a neighbouring young waif,
What the 'eck's causing this racket?
Sir, get back inside, it's not safe.
Alone in 'er 'ouse Mrs Snodgrass
Engrossed in 'er cookery books,
Lying on top of 'er knitting,
A cap gun for scaring off rooks.
Mrs S. were as deaf as a washboard,
Not a clue what were 'appening outside,
Till 'waif started banging on 'winder,
Police think you've summat to 'ide.
Off to 'front door in her nightie,
And stifling a forty-a-day cough,
Refused to believe 'P'lice Inspector
And told all the cops, bugger off!
Back she went into 'er 'allway,
Dead-locking her front door behind
But not before giving them all
A furious piece of her mind.
Now nearly four in the morning,
The coppers rubbed sleep from their eyes,
Scrambled back into their vans
And 'ungrily gobbled their pies.
And eighty-year-old Mrs Snodgrass
Attracted some well funny looks
Next time she 'ung out of winder
To shoot off 'er cap gun at rooks.
Quid: UK pound
Winder: Window (pronounced windder)
Cop Shop: Police Station
Cap Gun: Child's toy gun which makes a loud noise