Well, I think you could my red wine. My sweet decadence. Or maybe you could be my sunshine, My moonlight. You could be my celestial dream. In my heard is such precedence, Such a hope sublime. I hope that you could be my red wine. In time, My sweet decadence.
And so we go. Travelers two Upon a long slick road, Salted for safety. The moon in the lagoon laughs at us, Laughs with us. Such a sweet giggle. A laugh not heard before, Too innocent to ignore. It’s victorious. Because the sword has won, And the monster is done. The scenery fits, Melting away revealing a new day, Unveiling miles upon miles of decadence. Yes. This, my sweet, is how we know, We are finally going home.
On Market Street on a wild and wintry day I saw their shapes in the gathering gloom By the Christmas markets down Manchester way And my thoughts of the elephant in the room
Concrete protects Albert Square in a decadent December Queues for Yorkshire Pudding Wraps sold by Europeans in caps The fine smell of pine fetching my childhood to remember Where ghosts of Christmas past occupy gaping gaps
The currency of time I gave the shapes in the city And recognition of their unseen existence in the bustle That surrounds their incongruity with little or no pity From worldwide voracious visitors flexing financial muscle
On a midnight Piccadilly back street where the shadowy shapes meet Away from the shuttered stalls and boisterous behaviour Under starry skies with tear filled eyes and frozen feet No guiding shining star or wise men to bring them a saviour
Based on Patrick Kavanagh's On Raglan Road but with very different subject matter i.e. the shapes are the unprecedented multitudes of rough sleepers and homeless in Manchester city centre while the Christmas markets sell their overpriced goods to many who pay the price but can't afford it.