The Salt On Your Shoulder Is For The Chips

It’s the northerners done good
That knack me off
More than they should
It’s the dauphinois on the shoulder
That should’ve told
You should

But hes are also shes
VAT receipt
The bleach blonde
Prosecco quaffers
Queuing for the
Unknown soldier
Monuments
To the ‘aw bless ‘im’ bleat

It’s all gone a bit
Predictable yes
It’s all gone a bit
4 Yorkshiremen sketch
Hamming it up in plays
That plays out as sure
As cured pork is gammon
With lashings of
Lashing it up in the beck
And the call of brow beaten bar staff
In central chain pubs
Director of nowt
Grow up

Because the wheels
Your forefathers greased
Machinery rooms
Makes you not
The flash bastard
Better man than me
Or her
Cold shoulder
Makes you predictably
Lacking the points
In that department
Makes you stick out
That bottom
Service lip squire so
Wind yer neck in
And give us a chip