“Ar’ ey” they’d say,
“There’s a woolyback in town”,
Trespassing on their turf.
I’d scuttle past them in a hurry,
Because I had heard the stories.
They’d get “bevvied” and smoke “ciggies”,
Tossing beer bottles into the dock.
They’d brawl in the Cavern Club,
And “rob ya” just because.
But among the abandoned factories,
That dozed by the riverside;
There was a park, so still,
And sheltered from the northern wind.
That I would almost forget those stories.
Until I was on the train,
Going home,
And saw the Bulger flowers.
