Lancashire Weaver

I didn't take the flat.

The sky was blue, the morning I went to see it,
the birds were singing.
Someone had added decoration to the wall.
Kids probably.
Thinking it's big to tell people
to fuck off home.
Poor sods. What future do they have.
Well, look at me. Fat, body broken,
army pension never quite enough.

Anyway, as I said,
the birds were singing.
Made me think of the past.
And of belonging.
Haven't found that often,
though I looked in enough places.
Always feel the wrong shape somehow,
like I was packed in the wrong jigsaw box.
Not that it's all been bad, you know.

I was based in Germany for a while,
The birds sang there too.
Probably could see the Alps,
if they flew high enough,
not like the ones here. What do they see.
Grey streets
and the graveyard if they're lucky.
They still sing, though, don't they.
I reckon there's a lesson in that.

The roof's still falling in,
though I paid half my pension
to that bastard who ran off with her.
I'm not much of a catch,
when my savings are gone.
I did raise her son, though. Good boy.
Not easy for him, but he came right.
Got a bit of a job.
What more can we dream of.

200 years ago today
the workers marched here and got shot.
Back when I could walk,
I saw a plaque about them,
up in the hills.
3,000 people marching together.
Trying to save their jobs.
But everything's bloody well gone: mines; mills.
So lads paint shit on the walls instead.

Anyway, the flat was alright,
warm, bright, building well made.
Decent area, too.
If it weren't for the fifth floor balcony.
Too tempting.
I do remember the birds,
singing to the crumbling estate,
just as though they were singing to the mountains.
And I try that too.

And sometimes it works.