Whilst trauling the sewers of the internet i came accross these poems. Whilst there is an element of truth in them i felt an enormous wave of defensiveness wash over me!!!
Accrington was famous for it's Nori's
Great Harwood, for it's mills and fabled snuff,
And the Papermill at Rishton was a landmark,
As was the stream that wound through Priestly Clough.
To scale the mighty Coppice was a conquest,
Of late fragmented by a noisy motorway,
Like yer 'Lectric and yer Bulloughs, most is gone now,
Never more to see the light of Hyndburn's day.
Dear old Oswaldtwistle, too, is much devalued,
Gobbins' rarely lift their heads o'er Tinker Brook,
An' Pit at Huncoat lies a dusty memory,
Like it's power station - gone, long since forsook.
Branch line stations served the Urban population,
With sidings, yards and endless loops and tracks,
Whence industry and commerce thrived in tandem,
Till Beeching smashed the railways with his axe.
An amalgam of these proud old towns and hamlets,
Threw up Hyndburn - what an awful choice of name!
Still, just look around the townships and consider,
Is this cocked up shambles worthy of acclaim?
For a home without a heart amounts to nothing,
But a soulless place where smiles are seldom seen,
Where once proud streets are filled with drunks and litter,
'Tis as though our civic pride has never been.
Signs are we're soon to see our PicturePalace,
Our furtive Council have at last awarded trumps,
But to give us back our pride and reverse the ebbing tide,
We need to press all hands back to the pumps.
An Accrington Lament
© Derek Gregson 1998
Oh to be in Accrington,
Where yobs reign wild and free,
Where vandals, thieves and muggers
Prey on innocents with glee,
Where winos, drunks and foul mouthed kids
Make decent folks despair,
And litter strews the pavements
Mixed with dog dirt scattered there.
Oh to be in Accrington,
Where taxis jam the street,
Where burglars trade in anguish
And the police admit defeat,
Where druggies, fools and tattooed thugs
Make nonsense of the law,
And most town centre hostelries
Are places we daren't go.
Oh to be in Accrington,
Where slothness festers deep,
Where zeal is seen as stupid
By the riff-raff workers keep,
Where shops, arcades and market stalls
Count more on theft than sales,
Pray one day soon the worm will turn
And act to cure our ails.
Oh to be in Accrington,
When 'las the light shines through,
When kind words come with courtesy
And grim times are but few,
When parents and their children learn
The meaning of respect,
When that day comes we'll thank Our Lord
And gladly genuflect.
End
Litter Bugs
© Derek Gregson 1998
Walk the streets of Hyndburn if you dare,
In and out the piles of rubbish gathered there,
Tramp through dog mess inches deep,
Chip bags crumpled in a heap,
Or unmentionable things we should beware . . .
Crushed fag packets, pizza wrappers, broken bottles,
Empty crisp bags, squashed beer cans and so much more,
There are skips and bins provided for our rubbish,
So why then must we dump it on the floor?
See the parks and playgrounds as you may,
Though I doubt that you would really want to stay,
Cans and bottles fill the greens,
Dumped by children in their teens,
Whilst their language should not see the light of day . . .
Used syringes, ciggie papers, chewy wrappers,
Sandwich cases, magazines and so much more,
There are skips and bins provided for our rubbish,
So why then must we dump it on the floor?
!! It might be a s*ithole but theres worse places than Accy!!