Local lads made good

Ė proof that anything was possible:
All you needed was love and a guitar,
a decent hair cut, a bit of luck.

After a hard day, waiting for the bus
on Penny Lane, they had you whistling
for the future like it was a big stupid dog.

They didnít sing about hanging the DJ
about ghost towns or being a hero.
Their soundtrack was for ordinary lives,

as seen on Lord Street and Hope Street
and every other street that rattled with
the same scouser vowels, the same hard luck.

Love, love me do. And the world did.
It made you proud, like the docks, the architects,
the big ships. But they all buggered off.

They grew their hair and smoked dope
and met Indian mystics and were millionaires
or dead, or vegetarian and living on another planet.

You were the nowhere man. You never knew
what you were missing. When the docks grew quiet
and militants made your city a laughing stock,

when riots put you back on the map, in a bad way,
you queued once a fortnight for permission to exist.
The world was never at your command.

By Clare Kirwan