NEW YORKSHIRE.

To the left a dejected old rival,
Up above only wilderness trills,
To the right enemies are all tidal,
And below is an ignorant quilt.

Deeper still are the bowels of London,
But we’ve nothing to fear from there,
And across the old channel their under
The weight of old socialist prayers.

And over the compass’s spectrum
We’re battered as we pass around,
Until, with relief, we detect home,
And settle our wings on the ground,

For it seems that we’ve beaten our daemons,
Whilst the rest of the world battles on,
But up closer you’ll see that we’re breeding
Fanatical morons with bombs.