Unfair Advantage

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Unfair Advantage

The Captain Fantastic,
Who racked up the hat-tricks,
Transferred for a glittering prize.
Shunned Man. United,
Picked Burnley, excited,
Egged on by the lure of their pies.

Yorksher equality

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Yorksher equality

Pints for ladies,
Men having babies,
I'm all for equality, me.
Education for women,
Men, synchronised swimming,
-But, expected to make me own tea!

The things posh people do

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Things that posh people do

If you are intimidated
By men with lots of dosh
Or you get exasperated
With a woman talking posh,
Then spare a thought
For things they do,
When they disport
Like me and you.

They enter earth
Completely nude, it's
So the nurse
Can see their rude bits.
A good long year
They shit at will
And make it clear
They're volatile.

Once toilet trained
They use the loo
And unrestrained,
They'll wee and poo.
Growing older
They learn to fight
As they get bolder
For their rights.

They do have sex
Like me and you,
Yep, with their ex,
They do that too.
They'll cheat, defraud,
Amass, be greedy
Hide their hoard
For when they're needy.

These people Porsche
Are just like us,
(Except, of course,
Won't catch a bus).
They tell you many things untrue,
To save their skins, they lie,
Then, just the same as me and you,
They curl their toes, and die.

The class system

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The Class System

There are people out there
Who are devil-may-care,
Don't do what is fair
Or count who they scare
And will steal whatso'er
Howso'er and when'er.

Or the vin-ordinaire
Who live laissez faire,
For whom life's an armchair,
To snooze unaware,
Without having to bare
Their soul anywhere.

But the people who dare,
Are the humans who care
That we all have our share,
Who seek to repair
That unjust affair.
For them, say a prayer.


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It's not my wheelchair
That makes me disabled,
But the way the world's built
And designed for enabled.

Vive la difference

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Vive la difference!

The slowest thing upon the road,
Will reach its destination,
And wealthy king, to common toad,
We all need procreation.

Our differences make us unique
And should be celebrated.
It's prejudice that keeps us weak,
So why's it tolerated?

The works trip

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The works trip 

There's a little known fact'ry in Yorksher 
That's as rare as an 'oss what lays eggs, 
Making shoes just for one footed people 
Them as lacks quite a full set o' legs. 

One half of 'fact'ry makes left shoes, 
Whilst t'other specialises in 'right, 
And 'cos 'shoes were selling like 'ot cakes, 
Operations went reet through the night. 

The two halves of 'fact'ry don't mix much, 
Except when it's time for a brew, 
Or at lunchtime, a quick game of footy, 
Would spring up, on the spec, impromptu. 

Charlie Clegg went to work in this fact'ry, 
After flunking 'is exams at school, 
And because of 'is Catholic leanings 
He were put in the left footed pool. 

Once a year they would 'ave a works outing, 
Organised by the new boy or girl, 
So, wi' Cleggy being 'newest of 'rookies, 
He were asked if he'd give it a whirl. 

Usually, they repaired to an alehouse 
Where they all got as pissed as a fart, 
But Cleggy were more into culture, 
Like statues and paintings and art. 

So he purchased some entrancing tickets 
To 'world famous Pontefract Gallery, 
What 'ad loan of a painting from Barnsley,
 Of a big local lass, Moaning Valerie. 

They made it to 'gallery, all sober, 
And admired the celebrity painting. 
Some of 'em moved close to tears, 
And some as was almost a-fainting. 

On 'way homeward they sloped off to 'pub, 
One nicknamed,'The man with two bricks'. 
A chance for the boys and the girls 
From both sides of fact'ry to mix. 

Charlie boy copped off wi' a lass, 
Called Rita, who worked on the right,
 There is no need to go into details, 
All I'll say is, he 'ad a good night. 

The trip were the best, so successful,
 Yorksher folk 'aving cultural veins 
And Cleggy were con-grat-yoo-lated, 
All agreed, he should do it again. 

Both halves 'aving got along famous
 Just showed them what people can do, 
When  we tolerate what makes us different, 
And we each try the other one's shoe.


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The king is dead, long live the king
So those heraldic angels sing.
Here lies he, in princely state,
Mortal man, to whom his fate,
Death that leveler of us all,
Cares not for goods, for wherewithal.

No difference makes, for rank, or status.
Keeps for each, this forced hiatus.
What use now those jewels, that wealth?
Lost is that youth, that life, that health.
Our time is precious, borrowed must
Be handed over. We to dust.
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