The poignant flower which rose petals bloom,
shares no colour to convince the wide horizon.
Crackling shackles that seep into the sewn life
of those who write the happiness of freedom.

Them who see sweetness upon the hills,
yet see wonder of progress in our streets.
Once cobbles, to stone, to tar,
never ceasing to contain the pulsing blood of the North.

Those of imagination, those of speech,
those that observe characters through a tender hand.
Through blood, terror and rebellion saw lives
of the none forgotten, give indentation.

We who see beauty in the last petal,
of the forever lasting Yorkshire rose,
rise upon the standing buildings that caress
the fabric of old Hull town.

We who give thanks to its saviours and to its new creators,
we forever see green instead of the black cloud of war.