In Norfolk folk are vile and base,
They’re foul of heart and foul of face
And render this appalling place
A living hell.
Their sordid taste for incest shows
In supernumerary toes.
A local with just two of those
Is doing well.
They spend the damp and dreary days
In philistinic, bumpkin ways:
They'd use a book of Shakespeare plays
As toilet roll.
And even if these missing links
Enjoy their county’s country stinks,
The out-of-towner gags and thinks
‘God, what a hole!’