Close The Cole House Door
Pity the chatter of Cheryl
And the way that Yanks didn’t swoon
When her perilous vowels
(Unlike Simon Cowell’s)
Came out of the Tyne, out of Toon.
Cheryl is redder than beryl
That her voice and her accent don’t fit:
The USA sacked her
From judging X Factor
Dressed up in a black-and-white kit.
Cheryl, who used to be Tweedy,
Is a stunner, a wowser, a corker,
But the Land of the Free
Wouldn’t stump up a fee
For a lass bred in Heaton and Walker.
Even Meryl could not mimic Cheryl
(And she can speak English in retro)
She can’t do the bawdy
Excesses of Geordie
You hear on the Tyne and Wear Metro.
Perhaps they thought Cheryl was feral
And hearing her voice was a hassle:
They just couldn’t cope
With her accent. I hope
That they never come up to Newcastle.
They wanted a voice that was sterile
And Cheryl was swiftly resigned.
I can’t get to grips
With her sudden eclipse,
But then I come from Sunderland, mind.
