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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!’

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