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!’

Norfolk

© 2019 by Rob Stuart