Blackpool Town

When I look around, what do I see,
A town of depression and poverty.
Who would have thought the sunny seaside town,
Is hell for the locals they call Sandgrown.
With packed beaches and a heaving sea front,
The burger van lady who greets with a grunt.
The sun is shining, holiday makers galore,
Check out the back streets, they’ll make your eyes sore.
I remember the days when I grew up,
Down the road from Blackpool Football Club.
There’d be hooligans and fights at the end of our street,
And even the drunks pissed up in a heap.
It’s a resort for families, is what they say,
But the hens and the stags have it their way.
With kiss me quick hats and cock rock lollies,
To cheap cigarettes and blow up dollies.
This is not the family place,
Go to the bars, they’re a disgrace.
The best thing in Blackpool is the sea and sand,
But not full of litter that’s left all around.
People come and they go for nine of the months,
Yet they leave it a mess for the local ones.
I tell my kids to get out of the town,
Before it eats them up and spits them out.
The transience, the drugs, the poverty, the pain,
Blackpool has changed, there is no gain.
So onwards an upwards from the town I leave,
To follow my heart and live with the trees.
 
Jaisa Oak