The cold, litter-swept streets of Bolton town
Are pierced not only by the freezing wind
But by the shouts of lads playing the clown
The shaven-headed and track-suited kind
The dignified town hall’s clockface aligned
More with the moon than these streets down below
Maintaining high standards, seemingly blind
To economic downturn, social woe
The stained pavements and walls of each long row
Of pubs and bars and clubs streaked grey and brown
We pass a passed-out woman, left behind
For ambulancemen to mop up as they go
Down old and bitter streets, back up and down
In pubs the hard laughter brings pain to mind
Mon 11 May 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment