the fools at the end of Wigan’s pier

are progressively threatening its stability

and more alarmingly this outlandish breed

is compromising Wigan’s credibility

their once demographic insignificance

now grows like a worrying tumour

eating into Wigan’s meat-pie heart

like sinister Poe-esque dark humour

 

they are any and every gender

cultivated at a very early age

affecting us in dire unfavourable degrees

according to their regressive stage

initially they seem mildly humorous

with their peculiar unusual routine

but later they alarmingly unease us

with their twisted avant-garde scene

 

their beer-goggles are bigger than their beer-bellies

yet it doesn’t cause any alarm

to this elitist imprudent extremist

with deplorable and offensive charm

these racist ageist sexist bloodsuckers

contribute sweet-bugger-all

they jump on every propaganda bandwagon

and frequently off the wagon they fall

 

in shops and cafes or loitering in streets

or dropping the kids off at school

it’s simple to identify in its usual attire

the end of the pier fool  

once languid in curlers and pyjamas and slippers

bizarrely they’re now in-vogue players

it appears that Maslow’s ‘Hierarchy of Needs’

has skipped a couple of layers

 

and with merely some dubious benefits

and perhaps some alternative means

they feign the Hollywood lifestyle

with their bogus designer genes

appearance is paramount as their kids eat beans

and biscuits and burgers so often

hours misspent at the beauty and beast parlour

another French polished nail in the coffin

 

they excitedly advise on economics

and the financially disastrous happy hour

it’s 2 for 1 but the amount that they drink

leaves the beer-money tasting bitter and sour

and as they depart with swollen bellies

and a very slim wallet or purse

in skimpy winter shorts and flip-flops

they’re oblivious as the weather gets worse

 

their phones replace all reality

and they may as well don a blindfold

they live life in narrow corridors

with nonchalant attitudes stone-cold

insensitive to life’s wide panorama

we apparently don’t exist

in terms of any diplomacy

they deploy their undiplomatic fist

 

they’re driven by hype on which they get high

and drive everyone else up the wall

they drive the wrong way along one way streets

their life is a one way free-for-all

they’re blessed with inherent memories

of those unspoken un-PC times

and they love to practice with naive delight

those taboo deplorable crimes

 

their poise is precariously unbalanced

awkwardly angled at the end of the pier

fishing for rumours they happily feed off

with a fixed gawk and resolute sneer

their proverbial poles that angle for drivel

are poles apart from convention

they miscast their vote in political polls

or cast it in an unknown dimension

 

casting eyes on the ‘Cut’s’ mirrored reflection

they undoubtedly witness the clown

which is captured so well in that inverted image

their lifestyles revealed upside down

the ‘Cut’s’ watery depths will hit soft muddy silt

while the fools' depths will soon hit rock bottom 

their lifestyles will sink to dark murky depths

depraved and corrupted and rotten

 

most Wiganers are inclined to shy well away

from that over-used music hall joke

but the fools will happily cling to the pier

with futility they’re going for broke

they adhere to their own odd regulations

but break all of life’s hallowed rules

happily believing that bizarre is the standard

and the rest of us are actually the fools

 

they love to hibernate in coma-like stints

during unconventional hours

but they regularly surface and infiltrate us

like weeds amid flourishing flowers

they’re simple to spot and never elusive

they yearn for their story to be told

and they’re often seen chasing a rainbow

in search of that pot of fool’s gold