In Norfolk folk are vile and base,
They’re foul of heart and foul of face
And make this unappealing 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.
Their only use for Shakespeare plays
Is 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!’