Farewell then, dear – High Street

In my youth, a forbidden fruit,

Coffee in Wimpeys, but no loot,
To spend on records, Ben Shermans or beer,

A palace of riches but no room here,
For me, a bloke on a mission,

Making my way with hardly a vision,
Beyond making some cash to go out on the lash,

On the High Street, oh what a bash,
Some years later, money to burn

Fun on the High Street, it’s my turn,
But hold up, it’s a ghost town, it’s been brought down,

Out of town shopping has come to town,
On its knees, on its uppers, dragging its behind,

The High Street’s got bookies, phone shops, but no mankind,
If it wasn’t for Wetherspoons there’d be no people at all,

Refugees from the cult of the Mall,
In the centre of Bolton I witnessed first hand,

The despair of the High Street that’s gripping this land,
The statue of Fred Dibnah looking down on his flock,

But the only thing moving was the Bolton town clock,
The town centre was deserted, it could make you cry,

Thinking of the bustle of years gone by,
But steady on, as you drive to the Mall,

You talk a good game but you do bugger all,
As I have too, but I’m sick and tired,

Of talking crap while no-one’s being hired,
To create something new to replace what’s been lost,

Because it ain’t coming back but I do give a toss,
We killed the local trader,

Went to the mall, said, “see you later”.
Now the High Street looks like Tumbleweed Connection,

And we stand and curse our easy rejection,
Of the High Street, that magical place,

That we all disowned to sink with no trace,
Think back to the High Street as a place of wonder,

Bemoaning its fate we watch it sink under,
In the words of The Boss, “This Is Your Home Town”,

We must do something to turn it around.

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