Shouts of howay echo into the night,

my marras, dressed pretty sweet,

looking peng as owt, not a coat in sight,

ganning to toon for the neet!

 

Only bairns, bless, thinking we’re pure rebels,

getting absolutely mortal

off a few too many trebles.

So paggered, all wu can do is chortle.

 

A belta night, nearly over, but wor lass shouts

'divin’t gan yem yet! I’m clamming for some scran’

mebbies chips and gravy? nee doubts,

a propa sound plan.

 

Geordies got a rep for being radge,

wu pure lovely but divin’t start on is ta,

a can hold me own, ain’t gonna be ladged,

am northern, didn’t yi kna.

 

The south is pretty canny a guess,

but nowt will ever beat the toon

where strangers smile and talk on the street, no stress.

go doon to the quayside, you’ll defo swoon.

 

Cold as fuck, but the unrealest city in the north

Says she’s northern but she’s from brummy?

Met some doylems in uni, won’t be the first or fourth

But bet you wont catch is being chummy.

 

Too many southerners ask if am Australian, actually shan

Doon here all a hear is barth and grarse,

where did the Rs come from, howay man!

And a propa miss pasties, southern greggs are sparse.

 

Yous don’t drink yorkshire tea? That’s well barmy,

Ask for snout but down here they call them fags or blem?

When a see the Tyne bridge and hear chants of black n white army,

That’s when me little northern heart is yem.