So take our monumental past,
Of happy memories which last,
And smash it, smash it really fast,
Leaving piles of dust.
Tower and ferry are no more,
Holiday-makers, shown the door.
A seaside town without a core.
Who now can we trust?
See the clown astride the highway,
His sad smile says this is my day
To do things Wirral Council's way.
Must New Brighton die?
Sad resort we can't be saving,
Public money we must be craving,
For Birkenhead's crazy paving.
So resort, goodbye.
Your future is apartment blocks,
Not tourism or working docks,
Or shops full of designer frocks.
Come, accept your fate.
Ken Dodd will gig here one more time
But for the Floral, all's not fine
Unless the big store bags a prime
Site upon the lake.
So hear the bitterness and lies
When Morrisons is selling pies
Where was a lake and open skies
By a fort so old.
Near here I frolicked in the sand,
And listened to my first brass band,
The happiest boy in the land,
Wind-whipped but not cold.
The Last Resort and now I'm here.
I don't mind there isn't a pier,
That the place has gone somewhat queer.
And there's no tower.
Because where Mersey meets the sea,
Is still a much-loved home for me.
The lure of New Brighton, you see,
Has such strange power.
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Alberre wrote...
Excellant, but did Rocky Geetar pen this ? Only joking, it is excellent
REGAN REPLIES: Cheers, Alberre. Hope things aren't to sweaty out there in the MIddle East. You'll be coming to cool off in Wallasey soon enough,mind.
Posted by: Alberre | June 16, 2006 4:25 AM