Capital of Cultures

The culture of capital’s come here to save us;
the great and the good and the movers and shakers.
Accountants, consultants, artistic stock-takers.
Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers.

Creative industries with hordes of directors.
Shareholders, stakeholders, outside investors.
Risky assessors, unhealthy inspectors.
Bucks to be made in all cultural sectors.

Ten Paddy’s bars, chock-full of sham rockers.
Twenty-six Caverns and six Jacarandas.
Sing-along Lennons and look-alike Mackas.
Philandering dandies taking back-handers.

There’ll be sushi and tapas and pina coladas,
hundreds of lagers and Tikka Masalas,
whiners in diners and pizzas in parlours.
Bizzies in pin-stripes will be lined up to guard us.

Lads chilling out with their hands down their trousers,
girls out in town in their slippers and ‘jamas.
Rooneys and Gerrards on all the street corners,
Mathew Street swarming with wannabe Scousers.

We’ve mislaid a Grace and tramways elude us,
the buses left Paradise: ‘freeze out the boozers’.
But we’ve yellow subs, Quackers and super-lamb ‘nanas
and Gerry’s still there on the ferries to charm us.

The Bistro’s got luvvies and keen open-mikers,
the Casa is safe in the hands of the dockers.
Karl Marx guards the Swan with its juke-box and bikers.
The Revolution is here (with ten different vodkas).

We’ve got singers and sculptors and poets and painters,
a sub-counter culture that will surely sustain us,
when the spin has unspun and it’s all small potaters
and we’re shot of the freeloaders and 2008ers.

By Colin Watts