Down by cobbles

and old brick buildings,

teetering towers touching the sky,

where the August sun beats,

down on dancers,

and jugglers,

and singers with voices,

filling the air with harmonies,

that could be of any time,

where we will walk a mile.



Down over bridges,

where the shoppers roam,

stores of brick and marble,

and the station and mall

of steel and cutting, harsh glass,

which cut into the sponge of our history,

yet hear the littering of fuller notes,

piping, piping,

not a word to rise above it,

where we will walk a mile.



And up the hill,

where Arthur sits,

looking down on ants and antics,

of a city on a city on a town by the sea,

with dark trees and dark clouds,

and a single spark of light,

that rare moment of the sun,

shining through onto rain-slicked streets,

of ashes and smiles equally,

where we will walk a mile.



Over to Tynie,

where maroon flies from the windows,

with smiles and hopes and buildings,

built on what we've learned ourselves,

and the cries of nineteen of two,

run furiously through the air,

like a battle cry for all to hear,

and five one, too,

for isn't the our victory better than their defeat here,

where we will walk a mile.





Then down again to an old port,

of bakehouses and boats,

of songs and sins together,

built on the remnants of the past,

as everywhere is, of course,

and of green and white and blue and grey,

with screams of dreams that,

will never come true,

but to achieve these dreams so dear to hearts,

one must walk five hundred.