This is a poem I penned a couple of years ago for Blue Angel but with a few minor alterations.
Could God be a Yorkshireman? Could God be a Tyke?
They call it God's own country, so what is there not to like?
Purple tinted heather moorland, spectacular limestone dales.
And all in just one county more than half the size of Wales.
Scarborough's sweeping golden sands, York's ancient city walls.
Tis time to head up north again, harken Yorkshire calls.
The view from top of Sutton Bank fair takes your breath away.
Whitby Abbey's ruins seem ghostly, gaunt and grey.
Shopaholics head for Yorkshire's biggest city, Leeds.
In Harrogate's parks and gardens, they have no time for weeds.
If you walk on Ilkley Moor be sure to wear a hat.
Too many Yorkshire fat rascals will surely make you fat.
Yorkshire folk are warm and friendly, will welcome you with open arms.
And be proud to show you all their county's multitude of charms.
Have you ever heard Yorkshire's heartbeat? Did you drink all the summer wine?
Don't be in any doubt friends, I'm going to make Yorkshire mine.