We hope to get buried at sea

Now we go out in pyjamas
We wear suits and ties in the bed
I think it is odd
But I am not God
I  enjoy wearing dark red

We wear  our nighties as dresses
Frocks are not legal, you see
My husband is charming
I find him alarming
Give me a good cup of tea,

We wear our legs bare in the winter
For we come from the land of the Tyne
We are as hard as nails
Telling folks fairy tales
All in olde English and rhyme

When we get old, we go fishing
We hope to get buried at sea
Push  us all overboard
If  you feel  Geordie’s bored
Give him a hot cup of tea

As for the young they are angry
They cannot do any old trade
The Steelworks, the coal mines
Where Grandad did overtime
Now nothing useful is made

Consett and Hexham and Durham
The Cathedrals, the coal and the  rail
We used to  go hitch hike
Before we got’t motor bike
I married a North Eastern male.

Now he has gone, I am lonesome
I only have   doctors to see
They take my blood from me
X ray me merrily
Send me some olde Yorkshire tea.

I  think we have Guardian angels
Who watch us in horror and shame
The lust and the  hot rage
The lies on the front page
This  Satan is us,we’re to blame