He can fill up with mild, as he swoons over pies.
Can pepper airspace with his Geordie why-i’s.
He’s honed like the steel from a Tyneside foundry.
Decides Humberside’s cold as Norway. He needs sun and sea.

Her speech may seem gruff as she skates out to greet you.
Muffled gasps, whispered s'truths. Girth as big as an emu.
Lip shade, pickled liver, put on tenderly.
Skin’s peeled, wig is bleached, metal eyeliner put on wonky.

Chorus
Oh – though she’s barely top shelf,
it’s a date that she wants,
that won’t stop on a dime.
Oh – Karaoke’s her shout.
Has she been on the gin,
or just losing her mind?

She’ll never score more than that blond group from Sweden.
She’s shaved her legs so many times that they’re bleeding.
She frightens the guests, when she’s in the Ladies.
Seems that some of them feel, that she shouldn’t stand up when she pees.

Chorus
Though – size 18’s hardly svelt,
suspect thyroid’s defunct,
or a victim of chyme.
Oh – lets her metre belt out,
cos it cuts her beer gut,
like Dutch cheese with a rind.

Though the heels are a bind, having boobs can be cool.
Matteo might tease, but he still tends to drool.
The corset restricts when she plays in the sea.
She can turn the air blue if she’s swearing at you,
when the Geordie boy’s dressed as Lesley.