Our hero had finished his journey down south,
sharing his culture, being quite loud.
And whist awaiting his return back up to the north,
accepted one final tribute, a breakfast of sorts.
They brought forth to him tea,
It was tepid and weak.
What insult was this,
Did his patience, they seek?
Willing to forgive, he let this one slide.
And awaited the main to arrive with some pride.
Unbeat in battle, known far North was he.
As it’s mightiest eater, the pig slayer – me.
Out came the plate, brought to his table.
With quite some pomp, as if from a fable.
Insulted again, for what meat was this?
Reclaimed from the bits of the pig that were missed.
The sausage was plain, not Cumber’ or Lincoln,
They had managed to fail, with their miserable bacon.
The poor wretch had never seen a winter up North,
which would have hardened the meat, added taste to the pork.
The pudding had never seen innards or blood,
And the eggs had been pushed from the arse of a dove.
(For clearly not, the chicken had seen,
the great battle of foul of 2003).
Was this truly the all and the sum of the south?
That so soft were they, that their food left such doubt?
And all I could see was red in mine eyes,
That this was the best they could offer as tithe.
And as wont is all Northeners as is to do,
when treated as thus by as others shall too.
For whence and such as nerves are left this raw,
There was only one action left: to declare WAR.
Back in the North batallions were formed,
Regiments armed with real sausage, not Quorn.
And phalanxes grappled with spears made from bread,
formed and baked hard enough to crack a man’s head.
For where food is in battle, be in no doubt!
Our northern counterparts are tasty and stout.
So when presented forthwith with such a threat,
we go armed to the teeth, and very well fed.
Between Manchester and London the forces did meet,
and the Midlands did form the place for the feat.
All forces did bring, son, dog and daughter,
Lines of both sides threw themselves to the slaughter.
The battle was mighty, the battle was proud.
The Hodge was in Weatherspoons, where else to be found?
Our comrades did cleave though the soft sourthern masses.
Like a spork glides fast through a bowl of molasses.
On centre of field, two fighters sought out,
For Devon was held as the prize of their bout.
David and Daisy stripped bare to the waist,
Their udders displayed, a fight in poor taste.
Over so quickly, noone asked how.
Poor Daisy lay spent and dead on the ground.
The victorious bathed in the milk of the spoils,
It was clear right now, the Southeners recoiled.
In one final act, to cleanse and to pure,
Because dead bodies rot and makes harder to cure.
The earth was schorced to five thousand degrees,
a fitting end to Birmingham, sacrificed for we.
And the lands were divided and owned by the North,
apart from Devon which Dave had claimed as his fort.
And the land was now once quite again sure,
that no breakfast again would be served, quite so poor.