Blue Yodel

He was the Yodelling King of Whitby. On a calm clear weather day You could hear his practice yodels On the cliffs at Robin Hoods bay. He would stand there at the bar In his Tyrolean feathered hat With dark brown lederhosen, Black cloak thrown over that, To hold then all enraptured When he got up on that stage Setting female hearts a beating No matter what their age. His repertoire so varied, From classical to rap, With the occasional dance, Sometimes breaking into tap. Booked at the Alhambra Bradford He attracted audience motley All of his dedicated fan club Some from as far away as Otley. Then he strode on that stage And his throat suddenly dried And on the brink of stardom His career withered and died. They still talk of it in Eccleshill, Bowling, Idle, even Runswick Bay And many a tear is still shed About that fateful fateful day. He’s still Yodelling King of Whitby, Still holds the pub under his spell Particularly performing his finale Of excerpts from William Tell. Stardom no longer beckons It’s lustrous lure dispelled By the hurtful memory of That Bradford performers hell. Some times in his cups It really gets his goat: Yodelling King of the World maybe But for the drying of his throat.