A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
Empty churches, unheard preachers,
Fewer nurses, no more teachers.
Burgled house, then you're in lumber,
No police just some crime number.
Need a doctor for some ointment,
Make do with a phone appointment.
As for all the many food banks,
They've replaced the high street's closed banks.
Want a train, the station's closing,
Weeds upon the track reposing.
Feeling lazy, don't like walking,
Let your scooter do the talking.
Child's the brains of next door's pussy,
Universities' not fussy.
What d'you mean, it's all a mess,
This, my dear, is called progress.