A trip to London

I’ve just got home from  London Town and I’m sure it’s not for me.
Back home here in Bury, is where I love to be.
In sepia civilization from factory smoke and grime.
No mention of the Kray twins or tales about their crimes.
No tales of “Jack the Hat Mc’Biscuit” or how he met his end.
Everyone you talk to, were Ron and Reggie’s friends.
They’ll take you to the local” PAB” with bullet holes in’t ceiling.
A poor excuse for warm flat ales that taste less than appealing.
They take you down the Dockside” caff
For “ POY” and “Eels and Mash, ”
A licker all; around the edge that dribbles off your moustache.
.
They’re banging on about how the Krays were cousins of their Nan.
If Greggs the baker were their kin, at least we’d get some scran.
They look down on us Northerners and when we speak, they laugh.
Why don’t these buggers understand there is no “ R” in “ Bath!
Those Cockney wide boys speak of culture, local arts and crafts.
They don’t partake in Darts or “Doms” or farting in the bath.
I stumbled into Soho  amazed by what I saw.
A lady in her underwear with lightbulbs round the door.
She beckoned me inside to join her in that cellar.
But  I’m a simple Northern chap, I’m not that sort of fella.
Burning all those lightbulbs will increase global warming.
I said “Now go and put some clothes on, consider this a warning.
“I’m filing a complaint!” I said.”
Address it to the Mayor.
I’ll mention carbon footprints, and girls in underwear.
I’ll find the bloke who runs the show
The boss, the chief, the one.
I think his name is Boris Khan or Richard Whittington?
I’m glad I’m back in Bury, amid the damp and cold.
I’ll stay away from bright lights and streets all paved with gold.