The grey skies of Manchester,
Designed to oppress,
Yes, my head is in a mess.
This place of the bee is home to me.
Old boys return blisteringly unaware
Of the significance of a long, cold stare
Lost boys don't even mention the drugs.
In a chapel-of-rest or a public bar - don't wander far.
Out in the street, a mass of metal and rubbish
Outside the flats, wrecked fridges, torn up sofas;
This n that.
The boy racers tear down the road in stolen BMWs
Heading out to the coast where kids freeze among the rolling dunes
Stoned, far away from everyone
For they know they must leave fast or stay forever
Suicide’s always an option
Broken, boarded up windows along the front
These wrecks of old nightclubs,
Places to ‘house’ the unlucky asylum-seekers.
The white-cider-boys batter on doors,
No rooms to let, nowhere warm to sleep.
They get told to “Fuck off” a lot.
The freezing rain of winter stings
As they shiver themselves into a sort of death
The dustbin men often see people who have died in the night
Leave fast or stay forever
The weather round here
Can last a lifetime.