Bit of Fun For Gav From Ipswich

In Suffolk where the barley grows, Its said that folks have seven toes, And 'round some parts of Sutton Hoo, They've grown an extra finger too! They're banjo players one and all, And tractor drivers but that's not all, They don't go far when they get wed, They choose a cousin to bed instead; So watch yourself and have a care, If you should wander way down there, I wouldn't say they're thick or slow, But your average Snape or Ipswich joe, Is often found with a throbbing brain, And his jaw dropped at the sight of planes, Or wondering where the voice is from, Bewildered by a mobile phone, With flowery accent and hint of snarl, They're more or less Neanderthal, 'Orlroit Boi' they're heard to shout, When seeing friends round and about, Then his brain goes into overdrive: 'Oi'll see yer ammara in the pub at foive' But it's not my personal politics, To claim they're cider swilling hicks, This is of course a fallacy, (though grounded in reality ;p)