The Winter Gardens
Always blew like hell beside the Winter Gardens,
playing havoc with the wives’ hairdos.
Sunny Jim Callaghan and his silly song,
fishermen's tales about catches and the EU.
A little arm-twisting, word in the right ear;
the workers, united, will never be defeated.
Late-night curries and composite motions.
Flying pickets, tactics; that wasn’t my department.
Papers screamed about ransom and blackmail,
sneered at our accents, syntax, cloth caps.
They should have let us run our country; we’d
have done it better than those Eton chaps.
But the road from Saltley only led to Wapping.
I remember the beer-soaked talk in the bar.
“That woman? The grocer’s daughter? Not a chance.
You’ve heard her talk? They’ll see through her.”
Oh, we did like to be beside the seaside,
escaping smoke-filled rooms for the prom, prom, prom.
Kiss me quick on the pier, know what I mean?
Happy days before the wives came along.