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  • Poetry
  • Stories from Miranda Town


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  • Remembered in 1999
    31 Jan 2004

    The faces dreary in the crowd,
    The pissed up girls all turned up loud,
    The kids are lurking round the shop,
    Putting up signs wont make them stop.

    A young scuba diver,
    Returns from the lake,
    But there's no survivors,
    From a drunks mistake.

    The vicar shouts out off the cuff,
    But the congregation's had enough,
    He's crying naked in the gutter,
    And a Psalm becomes his last to utter.

    At St. Michaels palest walls,
    A different group are sitting down,
    A secret society of the Popes men,
    Have crossed themselves and said Amen.

    A mountain green and a slag heap,
    The old man in the coat's a creep,
    But the angry boys smashed in his face,
    To save him from a public disgrace.

    The yellow lights from a blackened vale,
    The speeding cars tell another tale,
    From the mountainside i watched with pride,
    The whole thing's been pent up inside.

    I stumble home late at night,
    Trudging uphill with all my might,
    For every step i manage to make,
    I restumble three and have a break.

    Ona rainy night at the bus stop,
    The factories as the bleak back drop,
    I tried to bring my thoughts to grips,
    But you just smiled and kissed my lips.

    (Taken from Riviera Street Corner)