Every Yorkshire lad would like to buy his mother
A bunch of pratty flowers
All blacksmiths make a lucky horseshoe for mum
By golly, by gum
The Eastern European, with the snazzy trainers
He's on the mobile
Not to his dealer, or his East England gang-master
But to his dear mama, ha ha
That simple lad, walking on the pavement
A jobless day, another what's it matter sort of day
Holding the bouquet uneasily, else which he fears
Might so easily fall through his life today
Back home, secure inside their own four walls
Clung together, yet without words for conversation
