This Town
In this town we’re bred on bravado,
suckled on real ale and cheap cider
our diet of ridicule and old chestnuts,
stick a bloke on his arse and you’re immortalised
His fault. Gobbing off. Went down like a sack o’ shit.
Wear your pub brawls like campaign medals,
swagger to the bar like its Spaghetti Western,
speak in fruit machine and growl
at the unfamiliar songs on the jukebox.
We abuse football referees on widescreens,
get our kicks from toilet seats and sticky
fondles up piss-soaked alleyways,
that’s the way it can go in this town,
but I remember the days after it happened,
the smashed bottle, the hideous lunge,
and although it was easy to blame the outsider,
handshakes softened, old stories dimmed,
and we glimpsed our faces
in pint glass reflections.
Dan Stathers