Friday, 26 August 2011

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Empty chairs by Don Maclean

Just in case you were wondering with regards to pic in previous post





Empty chairs, Words & Music © Don McLean

I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face
While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case
And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head
A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Never thought the words you said were true
Never thought you said just what you meant
Never knew how much I needed you
Never thought you'd leave, until you went

Morning comes and morning goes with no regret
And evening brings the memories I can't forget
Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs
And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Empty chairs


And I wonder if you know
That I never understood 
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would 



Monday, 1 August 2011

It's Yorkshire day!


An ode to the pudding.

Eh waiter, excuse me a minute
I'm not findin' fault, but dear me
'taties is lovely and beef is alreit
But what sort of pudding can this be?

It's what? Yorkshire Puddin'? Now cum cum cum cum
It's Yorkshire Puddin' yer say?
I'll grant yer it's some sort o' puddin', owd lad
But not THE Yorkshire Puddin', nay, nay.


Now reit Yorkshire Puddin's a poem in batter,
T'mek it's an art, not a trade
So just listen t' me and I'll tell t' thee
How t' first Yorkshire puddin' were made

A young angel wi day off from 'eaven,
Were flyin' abaht Ilkla Moor,
When t' angel, poor thing, got cramp in a wing
An' cum down at an owd women's door

. T' owd woman said "Eee - it's an angel.
By 'eck, I'm fair capped to see thee.
I've noan seen yan afore - but tha's welcome,
Come on in, an' I'll mash thi some tea."

T' angel said, "By gum, thank you kindly."
Though she only supped one mug o' tea,
She et two drippin' slices and one Sally Lunn.
Angel's eat very lightly yer see.

Then t'owd woman looked at clock sayin'
"Ey up, t'owd feller's back soon from t'mill.
You gerron wi' yer tea, but please excuse me,
As I'll atter mek puddin' fer Bill."

Then t' angel jumped up and said gie us it 'ere,
Flour, water, eggs, salt an' all,
An' I'll show thee 'ow we meks puddins,
Up in 'eaven for Saints Peter and Paul.

So t' angel took bowl and stuck a wing in,
Stirring it round, whispering "Hush"
An' she tenderly ticked at t'mixture,
Like an artist ed paint wi a brush.


Then t'owd woman asked " 'ere wor is it then,
T'secret o' puddins made up above?"
"It's nowt i' flour or watta, said t'angel,
"Just mek sure that tha meks it wi' luv."

When it were done , she popped it i' t'oven,
"Gie it nobbut ten minutes", she said.
Then off t'angel flew, leavin' first Yorkshire Puddin',
That ivver were properly med.


An' that why it melts in yer gob just like snow.
An' as light as a maiden's first kiss,
An' as soft as the fluff on t'breast of a puff,
Not ELEPHANT'S LEATHER like this.


Anon


Thanks to: Yorkshiredialect.com