The Fallow Field

The Fallow Field

In Fallowfield, it’s the dogs that run the weed

There’s a compartment in their collar Where they keep the deal

They run from house to house

And from street to street

To places that the tourists never chose to see From Wilbraham Road down to Nursery Street

Where large avenues of people live in a vacuum

Listening to crackling transistor radios Slapping out crackling chart tunes

From out of the window of Cortina Mark II With bricks for wheels Because “The Milk” was overdue

The most beautiful girls that you have ever seen Playing rallivoe, Kerbie, kick can and Hide and Seek

Kick can baby One two three

Fighting with the lads and holding them tight Dreaming of the evening and holding him right

Good Jumble sales still happen round here

It’s where Jack the Lad Gets all his going out gear

A Bobbled Pringle jumper That a golfer used to wear

Look really sad in Albert Square

On one of “the Lads big nights out” Doing Geranies Dipping jackets and blagging snouts

Minesweeping pints when their owner are up dancing And at 1.45 “the Lads” start romancing

“It’s quarter to two and I haven’t fuckin’ copped It’s probably because I’m off my box

And I can’t fuckin’ dance I can only smooch I just hold as tight as I can and slowly move”

and there’s Loads of Mams

And there’s Loads of prams

Trading Prozac for stories of painful mammary glands

And the same old words sometimes whisper Sometimes blasted “Why’s my old man such a fuckin’ bastard”

Heroines everyone of them For the shit that they take Rearing kids on a city council housing estate

Next door to the Library is a place known locally as “Hell” It’s 12 by 12-foot room

A Platt Lane Police cell

Where bank clerks, Sunday footballers and the innocent meet

After battles with Crumpsall on Oxford Street

But they are all laughing now All joking with each other

Because of the Lads knows one of the other teams brothers

They all meet in Fridays the following night And take on Wythenshawe in the car park for massive fight

Outside Victoria Wine Between the hours of 8 and 9

A girl old enough to hustle But no older than the time

Waits for a friendly face to come passing by

Then she’ll ask them real coyly “Can you do me a favour Get us Ten No B&H and a bottle of cider”

And she’ll tell them they are for her bed-ridden mother

Then she’ll take them Drink and smoke them on Wilbraham Fields

She doesn’t like the cider

She doesn’t like the cigs

She likes the way it makes her feel

Lying on the grass staring up at the stars

A mind puddle and pickled Helps massage the scars

A stagger through the avenues And in the back door

Then help her drunken father from the kitchen floor

Then falling up the stairs On all fours to the small room

Head spinning and cheeks ballooned

Wrenching boak splatters Armitage Shanks Heaving cider, the new chocolate, and eventually blanks

Another child ploughed, harrowed and left fallow for far Too long

Too many Hiding Fathers – too many Crying mams.

Too many Hiding Fathers – too many Crying mams.

Too many Hiding Fathers – too many Crying mams.


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