Do you really want to sit there on the 21st floor

Mixing matches, making matchstick men to bore

Your friends witless as you, once again, tell the tale.

Of when you once went north, further than Watford vale,

I know you never doubt yourself, my rhyming cavalier,

But a little word of warning in your shell-like ear:

Waiting for promotion to SW3?

Waiting for the loss-adjustors, to see?

Could you media-bore-globalists really give a toss.

As you scuttle back down to London at a loss?

Your plea is only heard in the rich man’s neighbourhood.

For sure, the north’s another country, and it floods,

This post-industrial landscape’s deep within our blood.

Metropolitan man and woman treat us with derision.

Their politicians are all liars, deceivers, cheats

You can trap them by exposing their conceit.

To tell the truth completely, to own up to it all,

To be the less-deceived, the north stands tall.