Cliff Young
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Cliff Young

A little bit about myself. (I'm the one with the 'tash)

Born in 1952 and had to give up working due to disability. Prior to that I had my own company manufacturing and installing double glazing. A serious accident put me in hospital for a long time and left me with mobility problems. My company closed due to my inability to run it during this period. I'm married with two grown up daughters that have flown the nest. I have a very active mind, and have always been a keen advocate on maintaining the Yorkshire accent. Hence my stab at poetry. It was a joy to find this web site, and to know that there are other like minded souls like me out there in cyberspace. My time is spent fishing. (I try to fight for fair play for disabled anglers) surfing the net, and writing both poetry and novels. (0r attempting to do so).

Docturs & nurses

Egbert

God's own county

In Praise of 'Yorkshire Dialect'!

It'll never get well if yer pick it!

Phew

Trubble

Docturs & nurses by Cliff Young


Am fed up o'playin docters,
Am sick o' this stupid game.
I allass end up bein t' patient
An' it allass cums art just t'same.

You an' yer bruther 'is docter an' nurse like.
An' you keep yer clothes on yer back
But me I keep lossin me nickers,
An' endin up nude in the sack

An'am gunner tell you two lads summat
That me mam telled t' me uther day
Them things that yer call willies,
The's note special abart 'em any way

Cos I know you think that there luvely
An' us lasses 'ell drool at there sight
But your two's in't that grand lads,
Ave sin bigger than that just last night

An' me mam telled me summat secret,
But I'll tell you two lads cos yer me mate.
It's this sweet little thing that I'm hiddin,
That gets your willies in such a state

So am not playing yer docturs an' nurses,
them's games fur kids anyway
'Am waiting till I grow much older,
Cos i'ts adult games I want to play


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Egbert by Cliff Young



The remarkable tale o' ar' Egbert,
Is one that I'm 'avin t' tell.
Cos although our Egbert looked 'ealthy,
'e really wasn't that well.
E'd been 'avin cold sweats on an evenin,
Woke up screamin int' middle o' night.
An' when green spots started appearin,
It sure gave 'is mother a fright.

Fetch doctor, bring ambulance, get nurse in,
Summats wrong 'ere I can tell at a glance..
Them green fly should be landin ont' cabbage,
Not layin eggs in our Egbert's school pants.
The doctor came round in a 'urry,
'e stood there n' 'e shook 'is 'ead.
Well misses 'ave never sin ought like it,
But if it dunt stop young Egbert could soon be dead.

The put Egbert t' bed wi' sum medcine,
Med 'im bath in cold watter that night.
But int' mornin our Egbert were much wurse.
As green spots spread like patato blight,
They decided t' send 'im t' 'ospital,
An' put 'im in a ward all alone.
An' cos our Egbert were lonely,
They gi 'im 'is own mobile phone.

The 'ospital staff brought int' specialists,
But they all 'ung their 'eads darn in shame.
Fer n' matter 'ow they tret Egbert,
Green spots kept on spreadin just same.
Twas decided t' tek drastic action,
As little shoots from green spots did cum.
The first ones appeared on 'is for'ead,
The next lot appeared on 'is bum.

No matter wat they did they couldn't stop 'em,
As the buds they grew and they grew.
Thy tried t' cover 'em in ointment.
But buds just kept cummin through.
Till a canny old nurse wi green fingers,
Said! doctors I've got me a plan.
It seems that we can't do ought,
But I may know a young man who can.

So they rang Alan Titchmarsh from t' telly,
An' 'e brought 'is whole gardenin team round.
An' they sat an' they thunk fer a moment,
then they all stamped their feet 'ard ont' ground.
Do you think I could talk alone to young Egbert,
That canny young Alan 'ad said.
An' all doctors nodded in agreement,
As Alan talked t' Egbert in bed.

Nar then lad can I ask you,
'ae yer bin tekin ought from yer dad's garden shed.
Poor Egbert bust int' tears then,
As 'is face turned a bright shade o' red..
Well yer can see I'm onny little,
An' all t' kids at school call me short.
So as I watched this ad on our telly,
I 'ad a smashin great thought.

It said "Growmore if used in yer garden,"
Could mek little things grow reet big.
So I snook in me dads shed one evenin,
An' while 'e want lookin 'ed a swig.
Then a read label ont' bottle,
It said use every day cum wat may,
So I drunk it each day for a fortneet.
An' when nowt 'appened a started t' pray.

The rest yer know from yon doctors,
So Alan do yer think that there's 'ope.
I do lad but promise me summat,
Int' future lad dunt be such a dope..
Then Alan went t' talk t' the medic's,
He explained all about Egberts plight,
Just watter 'im each mornin an' evenin,
Place in sunlight an 'e'll be all right.


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God's own county by Cliff Young


God got up early one mornin,
He'd just 'ad a reet restless night.
An' 'e turned t' 'is best 'elper Gabriel,
Sayin dunt wurry lad, dunt tek a fright.
We're gunner do summat special t'day,
Summat t' mek us all proud.
So thee gu an' fetch a big tool box,
An' I'll sort t' materials ought.

Why God wat we gunner b' mekin,
All others 'eard gabriel say.
We're gunner mek 'em an 'eaven,
The best that's bin med any day.
An' we're gunner plonk it on earth lad,
So wen we look darn frum on 'igh,
We'll see this gradely creation,
An them darn there'll see t' sky.

Bugger me God, that'll tek sum doin,
We might 'atter wuk all through t' night.
Dunt matter lad I'll pay thee ower time,
If job's wurth doin, it's wurth doin right.
We'll start by buildin a model,
I think that's best way ahead.
Bloody hell God, it'll tek us furever.
I'll never get back t' me bed.

'O stop moanin, an pass me a shovel,
we'll start wi sum gorgeous high hills.
Then we'll mek 'em sum crackin green valleys,
Fur them that can't climb cos there ill.
Nar 'ave sin it on't ground force on't telly,
That program the all rave abart.
We need loads o' rocks an' sum watter,
An places fur watter t' cum ought.

'Am getting t' picture nar God,
sandy beaches, sum wi' pebbles an' like.
An sum lakes, an even sum forests,
Nice places fur kids t' ride bikes.
But 'ang on a minute, just wait nar,
A forsee, a problem ahead.
They'll all want t' live in this grate place,
An they'll want lots o' snap t' be fed.

Aye I dint think o' that one,
It's a problem we'll atter wuk ought.
We'll mek it kinder exclusive,
An' we'll save it fur them that's reet smart.
We'll ony let lads in that's canny,
We'll get lasses that's bonny n' fair.
We'll gi' 'em a great sense o' 'umour.
An' flat caps t' cover the 'air!

So they grafted reet 'ard fur a fortheet,
Sweat wu' drippin frum t' sky just like rain.
An' then God 'e lent back on 'is shovel,
An' said get us a Disprin fur t' pain!
Well gab dunt tha think it looks gradely,
'ave never sin owt look that good.
There's just one thing that's missin!
A recipe fur a great crackin pud.

Yer reet God it does look a cracker,
But it's ony a model, yer said.
Aye yer reet lad this is ony t' model,
An 'e thunk as 'e scratted is 'ead.
We'll call this little un Arran,
An we'll put it in sea off t' west coast.
An' wen them canny folk want an 'oliday.
The can gu up, then cum back an boast!

We'll mek real un a 'undrerd times bigger,
Miles an' miles o' beautiful land.
An' let me tell thee summat Gab lad,
This is wukin ought better than planned.
O' but od on God, just 'ang on a minute,
'ave got this wurrin doubt.
Wi all this watter, hills n' valleys,
Wur's all this watter gunner cum ought!

'Ave thought abart that in't a problem,
we'll gi 'em sum grate coastal towns.
Wi names like Whitby, n, Filey,
Nar get up t' bar it's yur round.
So the drunk n' the drunk Tetley bitter,
While the thunk 'ard t' find it a name.
I naw since wi' gi'em our puddin,
We'll call it Yorkshire nar in't that a name!

Yorkshire - made by God fur, God's own people!

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In Praise of 'Yorkshire Dialect'!



Ee, I 'as t' tell someone about this thing 'ave found
Cos it's so exciting, yer'll never keep it down.
Bloody brilliant really, wot a fantastic find,
I just switched on me computor, an' nearly blew me mind.

For 'avin bin an advocate of Yorkshire an' all that's grand,
I couldn't a bin more surprised if it 'ad all bin planned.
T' find that out in cyberspace, amid the I.T. age,
Sum canny minded people 'ad created 'Yorkshire Dialect' page.

Ay, an' let me tell thee summat, it i'nt a load o' tosh,
cos wi really are intelligent, although wi dunt talk reet posh.
An' summat that'll amaze thee, could even blow thee mind,
N' matter where tha travels, Yorkshire folk ye'll find.

They've spread to every continent, by land by sea by air,
'N' it i'nt hard t' tell 'em, no need t' stand n' stare.
They a'nt got funny 'air does, or boils upon the nose,
Or wear the famous button 'ole, that comley Yorkshire Rose.

So 'ere's 'ow t' tell 'em it i'nt a reet 'ard job,
Just ask 'em fer sum watter t' sleck thirst in yer gob.
An' ye'll see a little twinkle, a smile upon the face,
An' a knowin' look behind yer eyes, that yer cum from Gods own place.

The bestest county in the world, a place yer couldn't hide,
That's why we hold our heads up, 'n' they're so full o' pride.
There's a fact yer can't deny, it's written in our plan,
Yer can tek the man out o' Yorkshire, but yer can't tek Yorkshire out o' t' man!

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It'll never get well if yer pick it! by Cliff Young


"Now heed my word young fella,
this spot on the top o' yer 'ead
wants leaving alone,
when yer get back 'ome",
that's just what the doctor 'ad said.

But boys will be boys,
me mam used t' say,
an' if anyone's in any doubt,
when Jim picked the spot
on the top of 'is 'ead,
'is brains started seepin' reet out!

This caused Jim's mam t' get fretful,
she cried an' she wept all that night.
So she bandaged 'is 'ead .
wi sum poltice an' bread,
then she covered 'is 'ead wi 'er tights.

Aw, bloody 'ell mam, this is silly,
I can't go t' bed in this state!
Wi yer tights on me 'ead,
if a, well, sneeze in bed,
it'll run all ower me face!

But Jim, I can't tie yer 'ands darn,
t' stop yer pickin' yer spot,
'cos yer might need t' pee,
an' a mess there would be,
an' t'mattress would probably rot!

So Jim spent the night all-a stressful,
as 'e tossed 'n 'e turned in 'is bed,
till no more 'e could take,
cos it kept 'im awake,
'e just 'ad t' get at 'is 'ead!

So 'e lay in 'is bed an' 'e listened,
t' mek sure 'is mam were asleep,
an' in t'dead o' night,
put 'is 'and up the tights,
and scrat till it started t' weep.

Spot wept n' it wept as 'e scratted,
till t'mess were all ower t'bed,
an' 'e put up a fight,
that grim, gruesome night,
but in t'mornin our Jim 'e were dead.

'Is mam cried 'n' she cried at 'is funeral,
an'wept buckets after as well,
for although she'd tried,
t' scrub t'bed when 'e'd died,
she couldn't get rid o' the smell!

So listen young lads 'n' young lasses,
what elders are 'avin' t' tell.
If you've got a spot,
an' yer pick it,
It'll never, never get well!


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Phew! by Cliff Young

Theís a funny smell in Ďere yer naw,
Summat in Ďere dunt smell reet.
A smelt that smell this mornin,
An Iím smelling it agen tí neet.

Itís a Ďorrid little foisty smell,
Like maíbe drains is blocked.
Is summat dead intí fridge perhaps,
Or is summat dead or crocked.

Iíve smelt it in our bedroom,
Ontí landin aní ontí stairs.
Infact itís bloody every where,
Itís getting in me Ďair.

Itís werse ower near tí telly,
Or from yon
end oí couch.
Just tek yer shoes off our Billy,
Cum on lift yer legs up yer slouch.

My god thatís bloody revoltin,
I tell yer itís mekin me bad.
Itís yer feet I tell yer Billy,
No itís certainly not me or yer dad.

Billy just let me ask yer,
Wen did yer last change yer socks.
Wat yer meen yer canít remember,
Fer pitys sake just get Ďem off.

Itís funny yer naw I were thinkin,
Last week wen I did the wash.
Ďow the wernít none oí your socks,
nar cum on I said get Ďem off.

Wat yer mean! Yer canít move Ďem,
Yeríve bin tryin nar fer weeks.
Bet thereís enough muck between yer toes lad,
Tí start us all growin Leeks.

The canít be stuck I tell yer,
Socks dunt stick tí skin,
I'll cum an gi yer Ďand then,
I'll breath deep aní Iíll od it in.

My god yer reet the stuck lad,
Just let me have a cough.
Weíll atter soak yer feet mind,
Thatíll get Ďem buggers off.

A naw that watters Ďot lad,
But stick yer feet intí bowl.
Yer gran dunt smell as bad as this,
Aní sheís dead God rest Ďer soul.

Just look at that are Billy,
The cummin off in lumps.
Aní watterís ternin pewtrid,
I dread state oí yer pumps.

Yer toe nails just gu on fer ever,
Theyíve curled reet up an end.
Eí lad gu get sissors,
I'll soon get yer feet back ontí mend.

It should feel bloody better ,
Just promise me this Billy lad.
T' change yer socks every week nar,
Then theíll never get quite this bad.

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Trubble? Wat. Me? by Cliff Young


Can your Billy lake art missis,
I say can 'e cum art t'play?
It in't my fault he gets in t' trouble,
We'll be good! Watever yer say
Them apples we ad ,we just fan 'em,
As we were lookin' for some where t' pee.
We looked up an there the were, missis
Just 'angin darn from a tree!

No, that cat's gettin' better nar, missis,
It were summat we were just tryin art.
Ad seen this thing on are telly,
It said that them cats were rate smart.
Yer can blindfold a cat that man said,
An' stand ona wall n' od it 'igh.
Turn it upside darn, 'n let it fall t' graund,
stop it nar missis, dunt cry!
It managed t' turn it's sen ovver,
A think it ad t' far t'fall.
An' once vet's got its legs mended,
It 's just that it wayn't be that tall!

Ave paid that bloke back for 'is windus,
Want my fault that can war int' street.
Well wen yer good at footie like i am,
Yu've got to kick at each can yer meet.
A war just a little unlucky,
That wun't happen agen if a tried.
It bounced off that oad woman's for 'ead,
An' smashed in t' windur at side!

She wer all rate, not t' wurry
Dust sum stitches amblance man said,
Nar can 'e cum art then missis,
Cos it waynt be t' long afoor bed!
Aw this cattie ave got a'nt no ammo,
A carries it ararnd just for show
'N' if a see a spoggie ont' gutter,
Well ama crackin' good shot yer know!

'N' that sheep dog's 'air ,its grown back nar,
well 'ow wasa young lad t'naw.
that its ony sheep as need shearin',
well a staked it t' grarnd wi' it's paw.
'course it put upa fate, it were livid,
that beard trimmer belongs t'me dad.
no, it's just that it flattened batteries,
it were that med me father reet mad!

Or cum on, let him play art int' ginnell,
A promise we wayn't mek much noise.
A can see yer dun't really trust us,
But we're just two playful young boys.
Aw sod yer, i'll bugger off then,
Your Billy in't my ony friend,
I'll sod off an' call rarnd for Wally
Am sure 'is pet rabbit's on t'mend!

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