(Originally performed for Smithdown Road Festival on 29/04/2017)
Garmoyle Street’s put on a house party.
Ferndale’s getting smashed,
Blantyre is getting tired and don’t know how long they’ll last
Brookdale’s got eyes for Avondale
But Avondale’s got eyes for one thing - late night fried chicken run,
But the party’s just begun,
Arundel’s arrived all dressed up,
Thinking this tweed jacket, and Cocaine habit, will give them luck.
Kenmare’s still at Kelly’s, with a pint of manchester pale,
Comparatively, who turned up first, why it’s only borrowdale.
As the party takes its course,
A shadowy figure approaches...who is it?
Why it’s Frank Sinatra of course.
coffee from naked lunch in one hand,
Evil eye burrito in the other,
All his clothes are second hand,
Roy castle foundation clobber,
And he pulls it off, all cool and hip,
He’s been dancing with the dolls house djs for days,
And sampling the fine taste, of all the takeaways,
He nods to lidderdale, who instantly faints,
He’s a regular savour, the Greenbank saint,
He listens to thornycroft, harp on about the letting boards,
How they’ve won against the student letting agencies, finally not ignored,
But as the party climax’s, peaks and gets over the hump,
It feels already like the clean up has begun.
They’re all going home, in ones and twos,
To wake up tomorrow, around about two.
The other residents have already logged a formal complaint,
The only one left is Sinatra the greenbank saint,
Somehow surviving, somehow keeping on,
It could be all the drugs, but there’s something much more strong,
It's that desperation, that need to cling on,
That feeling that endings are sad, not wanting to move on.
But as the whole thing winds down,
The lights begin to rise,
Frank’s keen to do it all again,
When the new day and new lot arrives.
All poetry is written by Alex Ferguson.