Neathorpe Nostalgia
                                 
- A poem about darts and beer and frozen fish fingers -
                                                                                     
Doing the scuffed shoe shuffle
snuffling in the cold of the old dole queue, once more
checking the scores.  Eric Bristow
killed this town. Home
to flat caps and pigeons,
a flutter at the dogs,
Eh, but what I wouldn’t give

Living reliving that swept-under-the-carpet feeling:
The weathermen we used to have
wore jumpers, and forecast sun with
showers later.  I’ve spent the giro on
frozen fish fingers, a packet of Drum,
leaky buckets to catch the drips,
let’s get our kicks (while we still can).
Things was different then

We used to queue at the Liberty, on a Friday
or watch the flicks at the Empire.  Now
Just the dole queue for the prole few;
coo, they even paint the view a new hue
now the revolution isn’t likely,
and the smokestacks are for show.
Aye, the bastards get you down

Eh love, let us forget our shingles and joints.  
The world is spread before us like a land of dreams
There’s Cleethorpes, Blackpool or Skegness.
We’ve a bit of money in the tin, for gas,
but we can do without.  Let’s go out, do owt.
Paint the town back red before we peg
I’ll wear me wedding suit, you buy a frock. We’ll dine
at the Ritz!  Live on chips!  We’ll drink champagne all night!
We’ll sit down under the pier at dawn, and watch the sunrise
blue skies, silk ties, pork pies (he sighs
as the cancer works up through his lungs)
Shut the bloody door you drunken sod I’ll catch me death