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Soul

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for Grant Tarbard

 

Northern kids, their futures

predictable, they grafted dourly

five days a week down pits, in shops

and on the factory floor –

paying their way with some left

for vinyl, speed and threads.

 

Travelling miles by train each

weekend with a change of clothes

and a box of classic tracks

– minor hits and rarities

by blacks the charts ignored –

they kept the faith

 

and stormed the bouncers

– who lost their cool and didn’t get it –

once doors were open

to another drenched all nighter

at Wigan Casino, the Highland Room,

The Golden Torch, The Wheel.

 

A four four beat was all

they needed, rock steady,

relentless, and simple lyrics

that told the truth. Hallucogenics

and hopeless solos

warped the walls of bedsits

 

in never-never-land,

but lads in bags and polo shirts,

their girls in swirling skirts,

danced all night till morning.

Doing splits and fancy tricks,

they span around like dervishes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

◄ Captain Webb

Lines for a Fighter ►

Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Mon 25th Aug 2014 16:54

Always, you power forth strong stories built on reader interest, your own historical empathy and cutting details. Not to mention poetry crafting skills. Great poem.

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Ged the Poet

Sat 23rd Aug 2014 14:18

Keep on keepin' on!
Nice one David.

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Greg Freeman

Fri 22nd Aug 2014 14:59

I like this a lot, David, particularly "Hallucogenics /and hopeless solos / warped the walls in bedsits / of never-never-land,/ but lads in bags and polo shirts / danced all night till morning." A phenomenon I didn't have a clue about until years later. Did you see the recent BBC4 documentary? Part of Wigan's heritage, almost as much as the pier.

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