IT’S A MUFFIN

 

It’s a muffin

It’s a muffin

its a muffin I’d say

Till I realised it wasn’t 10 miles away

Now its all barms

The barm is a manc

As dreamt by some benevolent New Labour think tank

To market the north we need to be one

To knock off the edges and sound like London

our bread should be of one shape and one size

Not bottom of the oven and not left to rise

Does London not know that we all have a chip?

And a parochial shoulder upon which to eat it

From  Bolton to Hyde

We’re all slightly related

But our bread buns have never been integrated

I’d say we’re inbred, make a bread making pun

And stand outside odd bar with a lazy hard on

Discussing the merits with some chunky haircut

Dressed in sambas and denim and smoking silk cut

He swaggers around with his stockport hubris

He’s sorted – he’s mint – and he’s taking the piss

He says he likes music – he calls me oasis

“No mither” he says “you’re sound, you’re ok”

“You know the score, it’s a barm cake all day”

With my beer mat map I let him reflect

On the nuance of floured bap dough in our dialect

The lines are drawn by the Tame and Mersey

It’s a Muffin in Stockport, but  a barmcake in Kearsley

To the rest of the world it’s a chocolate chip mule

a muffin misnomer where bread rolls rule

its easier to sell all the grim and the gritty

in homogenised north sold by Media City

 

The chip’s getting bigger

Its 10 borough’s worth

A civil war at warburtons

From failsworth to farnworth

For what its worth I probably know nuffin

But for me it will always be chips on a muffin

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