The dusk is wallowing in Buckley Park;
the gentle glow of lamps in bungalows
spills briefly out into the setting dark
and then disperses as the curtains close.
You trudge back past the pubs, the chippy by
the bridge, young Billy fiercely fluffing rhymes.
It's time, the boatman yells good-fucking-bye,
to leave the town and all its hopes and crimes.
It's far from perfect, but the best a town
can do is grow a little every day,
ignore the impish folk of Grimly Down,
and hope that good intentions wash away
the slime and sludge of any plans gone bad
and leave the loving heart that's good and glad.