After the War Was Over

Born and raised in Liverpool, seaport on the Mersey,
he always finds summat to whine about: the bloomin' rain,
the bird droppings on the lions outside St. George's Hall.
Always standing in a queue, like the war’s still on.
Lining up for a derby match between Liverpool and Everton;
you even have to queue to place a bet
(though he never has a spare quid in his trouser pockets).
He receives blinkin' crumby wages for a good worker. . .
seems the lazy bums on the dole get more, for doin' nowt!
Taxpayer money chucked away making slums into gardens,
so snotty nosed kids could pull up the geraniums.

Then he gets a letter from our Alfie in the States,
the promise of a job, good pay, a nice house.
With his bloomin' luck? But, why not!
His mates give him a big "do" at the pub.
They drink too many half-and-halfs,
sing too many sentimental songs.
They all promise to ring him or write.
But none of them ever do.
He looks at the clock on the Liver Building
-- maybe for the last time?
As usual, it's raining like hell.

Alfie was right: big car, nice house, good job,
weather like paradise. Nowt to grumble about.
So why is he always dreaming of Liverpool?

By Margaret Goings