Phil Martin's Blog, page 4

Eyes wide shut

Eyes Wide Shut


Look up andnot down when you walk around town,
And see wingedand beaked griffins snarling down,
SeeNeptune on King Street with trident held high,And aglobe carrying Atlas stifling a sigh,
See proudlions guarding and gargoyles that spit,Eagleswith wings spread, Greek goddesses who sit,  See walkways of umbrellas to keep Dalton dry,And proud Manuncinancrests positioned up high,
See chubbycherubs holding mirrors and shields,Andknights guarding Cooper Street refusing to yield,
See serpents that slither and goats heads that abound,See how many bees you can see buzzing round town?
See Romanwarlords and industrialists,
See royalty,inventors and Manc scientists,
All ofthem cling to buildings round town,It's onlyyou that don't see 'em with your eyes fixed to the ground,
A city standsabove you; an architectural treat,So glance upat your buildings and not down at your feet.

Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.

Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on this blog.  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2 

POEM Eyes wide shut

Eyes Wide Shut


Look up andnot down when you walk around town,
And see wingedand beaked griffins snarling down,
SeeNeptune on King Street with trident held high,And aglobe carrying Atlas stifling a sigh,
See proudlions guarding and gargoyles that spit,Eagleswith wings spread, Greek goddesses who sit,  There'swalkways of umbrellas to keep Dalton dry,Proud Manuncinancrests positioned way up high,
See chubbycherubs holding mirrors and shields,Andknights guarding Cooper Street refusing to yield,
Serpents that slither and goats heads that abound,And how many bees can you see around town?
See Romanwarlords and industrialists,
See royalty,inventors and Manc scientists,
All ofthem cling to buildings round town,It's onlyyou that doesn't see them with your eyes fixed to the ground,
A city standsabove you; an architectural treat,So glance upat your buildings and not down at your feet.

Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.

Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on this blog.  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2 

The sights and sounds of Market Street

The sightsand sounds of Market Street
 Market Street bustles withcreative invention, As wannabes battle for musicalattention,
Where once the shoppers came justto shop,Now street artists sing all kindsof pop,
All of them tributes in variousguises,And every day brings new wannabesurprises,
Rappers rap with their beatboxing friends,The lino's down for street dancingtrends,
They dream of the big time and astage for their act,Just like George Sampson they'veagreed to a pact,
To dance on the streets and alife of performing,And hope that one day Cowellcomes calling,
Maybe you're passing the nextce-leb-rity,Who'll break through X factorlike Misha B,
But there's more going on todemand your eye,Selling, singing or begging asyou pass them by,
Like the guy with that whistlething stuck in his gob,His whistling shrieks making all songbirdssob,
The recorder player until duskand from noon,The one that continually makes uphis own tune,
The blind guitarist strummingShadows all day, His loyal Labrador guarding hispay,
White statues frozen, the manthat won't fall,Street artists painting, you'llremember them all,
But it ain't just the street actsthat reside on this street,The call from the fruit sellers;a pound friendly treat,
Big Issue sellers that pepper thechat, Two free staples, last one, fancythat,  That homeless guy who wantse-leven p,What's wrong with twelve ortwenty three?
Blow up Dora's sold from atrolley,Where spidermen dangle next to abrolly,
Don't walk behind him, movequickly with hasteOr soapy bubbles will be blown inyour face,
The charity workers attack fromall angles,Smile politely despite how itwrangles,
Buy floating balloons or sign up forthe army,If my granddad saw this, he'dthink we'd gone barmy,
For no longer do we walk downMarket Street,For clothes for our kids orsomething to eat.
A quid here, a quid there, theyall want my money,And this is the bit that youmight find quite funny,
Surrounded by street art of everyilk,I only stepped out for a cartonof milk,
My fingers search deep to seewhat I've got,Butmy pockets are empty; I've flicked 'em the lot..


Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC orKindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: The sights and sounds of Market Street

The sightsand sounds of Market Street
 Market Street bustles withcreative invention, As wannabes battle for musicalattention,
Where once the shoppers came justto shop,Now street artists sing all kindsof pop,
All of them tributes in variousguises,And every day brings new wannabesurprises,
Rappers rap with their beatboxing friends,The lino's down for street dancingtrends,
They dream of the big time and astage for their act,Just like George Sampson they'veagreed to a pact,
To dance on the streets and alife of performing,And hope that one day Cowellcomes calling,
Maybe you're passing the nextce-leb-rity,Who'll break through X factorlike Misha B,
But there's more going on todemand your eye,Selling, singing or begging asyou pass them by,
Like the guy with that whistlething stuck in his gob,His whistling shrieks making all songbirdssob,
The recorder player until duskand from noon,The one that continually makes uphis own tune,
The blind guitarist strummingShadows all day, His loyal Labrador guarding hispay,
White statues frozen, the manthat won't fall,Street artists painting, you'llremember them all,
But it ain't just the street actsthat reside on this street,The call from the fruit sellers;a pound friendly treat,
Big Issue sellers that pepper thechat, Two free staples, last one, fancythat,  That homeless guy who wantse-leven p,What's wrong with twelve ortwenty three?
Blow up Dora's sold from atrolley,Where spidermen dangle next to abrolly,
Don't walk behind him, movequickly with hasteOr soapy bubbles will be blown inyour face,
The charity workers attack fromall angles,Smile politely despite how itwrangles,
Buy floating balloons or sign up forthe army,If my granddad saw this, he'dthink we'd gone barmy,
For no longer do we walk downMarket Street,For clothes for our kids orsomething to eat.
A quid here, a quid there, theyall want my money,And this is the bit that youmight find quite funny,
Surrounded by street art of everyilk,I only stepped out for a cartonof milk,
My fingers search deep to seewhat I've got,Butmy pockets are empty; I've flicked 'em the lot..


Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC orKindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

From the Lou Macari chip shop to the back of Tier Two

From the Lou Macari chip shop to the back ofTier Two
From everypart of Manchester, from every part of town,Peopleflock to see them play and always fill the ground.
Everyboozer's bustling, the pre-match drinks in flow,TheDeansgate, Toll Gate, Sammy Platts then to the shops we go.
New RedIssue out today, and posters for a pound,Green andGold, the sellers shout, another match day sound.
The matchday stalls drip merchandise, the T-shirts freshly made,Celebratinglatest victories or the rival we've just slain.
Anyspares? I'll buy or sell; I love the touts' accents,But matchday scarves with rivals on to me just don't make sense.
A specialsmell still fills the air; fast food and smoke it's true,Where onceKellogg's and Boddingtons used to filter through.
Ournumbers swell as kick off nears; the shops will set the pace,Arrangementsnever needed, they're the perfect meeting place.
The beeris cheap, the offies close, the food is all on tap,The onlydownside is the rain when the Manc weather is crap.
The exactsame spot for many years no matter what the season,Our lovefor Man United is our only common reason,
The facesbob, they duck and dive, but they're all known to me,As theshops become the centre stage for red camaraderie,
TheBishop's songs are booming, they're sung out on the street,As I'mqueuing at the caravan for a Caribbean treat.
I scoffthe lot and drink my beer as chants begin to boom,Then regretfullyI make my way to the to-i-lets of doom.
Drinkerspush in everywhere to wee against a wall,Giggsystarts, its 442, the talk is all football.
I find myplace and wet my boots, literally I'm afraid, My leg is soakedall down my thigh where someone else has sprayed.
A few morecans are downed quite fast; we're drinking at a canter,A hail ofjokes from every side; collateral match day banter.
More cansto go, so through the crowds then pushing in the shop,A surge ofpeople spill outside but the doorman makes me stop,
A shout goesup, a coach goes past with beckoning rival fans,All tenmen behind the glass but then it's raining cans,
Mountedhorses clear the shops, fans scatter everywhere,Thevacated gap is filled dead fast, it's match day so we don't care,
Ian Brownstrolls through the crowd, same time every match,He's areal Manc, who goes every game, he never left this patch,
Guzzle,guzzle drink some more... check the ticket ain't a fake,Scribbletimes on bits of card for the first scorer sweepstake,
A noddedhead there, a greeting here, a chat with loads of mates,For yearsand years... this is where the match day congregates,
I love theshops; they bristle with lads from all over town,They'resinging that Ken Barlow song and jumpin up and down,
It doesn'tmatter who you are, it's the United fraternity,I hope theshops remain the same for a red eternity,
It's tento KO, time to rush and finish off the beers,Time toget inside the ground before we hear those cheers.
Thefloodlit haze above the ground's, an alluring match day sight,As seventythousand silent prayers drift off into the night.
An ocean ofheads are bobbing, a stormy sea of red,Today'sgame is a big one; and I get the match day dread.
We can'tget beat, we have to win, a ninetieth minute own goal,I reallywould take anything, One love, one heart, one soul.
The crowdit swells and slows us down as people start to funnel, And thechants all start to echo back once we're in the main stand tunnel.
Through theturnstiles, up the steps my adrenalin starts to fly,Right now United'severything, no other reason why.
But thosesteps will be the death of me, I slow down to a crawl,I gasp forbreathe uneasily and hang onto the wall,
I'll nevermake it to the top; the end is not in sight,But I losea Stella from my pants and everything's alright,
I burstinto the stadium, even excited by the pitch,The shirtsare out; we scour them to see who Fergie's picked.
The standsare packed, the roar goes up 'United' fills the air,And match dayanticipation prickles quickly through my hair.
The crowdall stand to clap the team and welcome our keeper in,Thesinging's loud, vociferous, a cacophonic din.
The right sideand the left side are singing different chants,Til U-N-Iunites us all and makes the Stretty bounce.
I jostlefor position but we'll stand the whole way through,There's nobetter place to cheer the shirts than the back of Tier Two.
Rooneyrolls the ball forwards the roar is deafening,A gulp ofapprehension what will ninety minutes bring?
Sir Alex strollsthe touchline; his fist raises the noise,It's time to sing our hearts out and get behind the boys.
Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC orKindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: From the Lou Macari chip shop to the back of Tier Two

From the Lou Macari chip shop to the back ofTier Two
From everypart of Manchester, from every part of town,Peopleflock to see them play and always fill the ground.
Everyboozer's bustling, the pre-match drinks in flow,TheDeansgate, Toll Gate, Sammy Platts then to the shops we go.
New RedIssue out today, and posters for a pound,Green andGold, the sellers shout, another match day sound.
The matchday stalls drip merchandise, the T-shirts freshly made,Celebratinglatest victories or the rival we've just slain.
Anyspares? I'll buy or sell; I love the touts' accents,But matchday scarves with rivals on to me just don't make sense.
A specialsmell still fills the air; fast food and smoke it's true,Where onceKellogg's and Boddingtons used to filter through.
Ournumbers swell as kick off nears; the shops will set the pace,Arrangementsnever needed, they're the perfect meeting place.
The beeris cheap, the offies close, the food is all on tap,The onlydownside is the rain when the Manc weather is crap.
The exactsame spot for many years no matter what the season,Our lovefor Man United is our only common reason,
The facesbob, they duck and dive, but they're all known to me,As theshops become the centre stage for red camaraderie,
TheBishop's songs are booming, they're sung out on the street,As I'mqueuing at the caravan for a Caribbean treat.
I scoffthe lot and drink my beer as chants begin to boom,Then regretfullyI make my way to the to-i-lets of doom.
Drinkerspush in everywhere to wee against a wall,Giggsystarts, its 442, the talk is all football.
I find myplace and wet my boots, literally I'm afraid, My leg is soakedall down my thigh where someone else has sprayed.
A few morecans are downed quite fast; we're drinking at a canter,A hail ofjokes from every side; collateral match day banter.
More cansto go, so through the crowds then pushing in the shop,A surge ofpeople spill outside but the doorman makes me stop,
A shout goesup, a coach goes past with beckoning rival fans,All tenmen behind the glass but then it's raining cans,
Mountedhorses clear the shops, fans scatter everywhere,Thevacated gap is filled dead fast, it's match day so we don't care,
Ian Brownstrolls through the crowd, same time every match,He's areal Manc, who goes every game, he never left this patch,
Guzzle,guzzle drink some more... check the ticket ain't a fake,Scribbletimes on bits of card for the first scorer sweepstake,
A noddedhead there, a greeting here, a chat with loads of mates,For yearsand years... this is where the match day congregates,
I love theshops; they bristle with lads from all over town,They'resinging that Ken Barlow song and jumpin up and down,
It doesn'tmatter who you are, it's the United fraternity,I hope theshops remain the same for a red eternity,
It's tento KO, time to rush and finish off the beers,Time toget inside the ground before we hear those cheers.
Thefloodlit haze above the ground's, an alluring match day sight,As seventythousand silent prayers drift off into the night.
An ocean ofheads are bobbing, a stormy sea of red,Today'sgame is a big one; and I get the match day dread.
We can'tget beat, we have to win, a ninetieth minute own goal,I reallywould take anything, One love, one heart, one soul.
The crowdit swells and slows us down as people start to funnel, And thechants all start to echo back once we're in the main stand tunnel.
Through theturnstiles, up the steps my adrenalin starts to fly,Right now United'severything, no other reason why.
But thosesteps will be the death of me, I slow down to a crawl,I gasp forbreathe uneasily and hang onto the wall,
I'll nevermake it to the top; the end is not in sight,But I losea Stella from my pants and everything's alright,
I burstinto the stadium, even excited by the pitch,The shirtsare out; we scour them to see who Fergie's picked.
The standsare packed, the roar goes up 'United' fills the air,And match dayanticipation prickles quickly through my hair.
The crowdall stand to clap the team and welcome our keeper in,Thesinging's loud, vociferous, a cacophonic din.
The right sideand the left side are singing different chants,Til U-N-Iunites us all and makes the Stretty bounce.
I jostlefor position but we'll stand the whole way through,There's nobetter place to cheer the shirts than the back of Tier Two.
Rooneyrolls the ball forwards the roar is deafening,A gulp ofapprehension what will ninety minutes bring?
Sir Alex strollsthe touchline; his fist raises the noise,It's time to sing our hearts out and get behind the boys.
Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC orKindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

Virgin Snow

Virgin snow
Silence shroudsmy five a.m. stroll,A privatewhite duvet on which to roll,Snowflakesflutter it's ever so pretty,As ablanket of snow engulfs my city.
Theblankest of canvasses made out of snow,The citysleeps soundly; still yet to know,The beautythat lies waiting for it outside,The one thatI tarnish with my every stride.  The townhall glistens like on a Christmas cake,With itsspires stolen by fluttering flakes,Wrapped infour layers but I'm still all a quiver,Yet proud Agricolarefuses to shiver.  The RomanGeneral guards his snowy white steps,Staring from his Town Hall as onwards I trek,On amission through the city to take it all in,Catchingthe flakes on my tongue and my chin.
PrinceAlbert stands freezing but he doesn't care,Hismemorial gleaming keeping snow out his hair,His wifeQueen Victoria, must be more than just chilly,But she remainssitting regally in a white Piccadilly.
No busesor people to soil her scene,For oncethe whole city's immaculately clean,Thepavements are buried, the fountains all frozen,But stillI plough on through the path that I've chosen.
Sackvilleglitters - and sparkles with frost,Turingsits snowed in, his bench buried, lost,Where Jackhas been busy blowing his breathe,Coatingthe apple that caused poor Alan's death.
I slip andI slide down a deserted King Street,Crunchingthe snow that lies under my feet,Fresh,crispy powder that continues to fall,Like I'vestepped into a life-sized snow storm ball.
Neptune bendsover, globe coated in white,Not even Poseidoncan turn back their flight,Wave afterwave flutter and blanket the sky,And stillthere's no sign of a passerby.
My nextfriend is Cobdam - the industrialist,He's coveredin white where snowflakes have kissed,Thestatues are the only ones sharing my treat,As I crushuntarnished snow under my feet.
MarketStreet's dormant, a ghost town it's true,The city soquiet like judgement day's due,The snoweven masks last night's dirt in the gutter,Everythingcovered by the snowflakes that flutter.  Deansgateis shrouded in blinding white,Two foot atleast, a most alluring of sights,Usually peopleare bustling and surging,Nowcovered in unspoilt –snow- that is virgin.
Soonworkers'll walk through this postcard scene,Rufflingthe blanket as their wellies pound clean,Theirfootsteps uncaringly melting the snow,As ontotheir work the masses wearily go.
They'llmoan and they'll curse that the bus didn't run,The tramsstuck in Sale, the trains didn't come, The carsneed defrosting, their engines are cold,Thecouncil gritters didn't grit where they're told.
In thehills it caused chaos, snowing folk in,But I justsee the beauty and never the sin,Walkingalone in our snow covered city,My Manchester's never looked so perfectly pretty.
Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC orKindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2 

POEM: Virgin Snow

Virgin snow Silence shroudsmy five a.m. stroll,A privatewhite duvet on which to roll,Snowflakesflutter it's ever so pretty,As ablanket of snow engulfs my city.
Theblankest of canvasses made out of snow,The citysleeps soundly; still yet to know,The beautythat lies waiting for it outside,The one thatI tarnish with my every stride.  The townhall glistens like on a Christmas cake,With itsspires stolen by fluttering flakes,Wrapped infour layers but I'm still all a quiver,Yet proud Agricolarefuses to shiver.  The RomanGeneral guards his snowy white steps,Staring from his Town Hall as onwards I trek,On amission through the city to take it all in,Catchingthe flakes on my tongue and my chin.
PrinceAlbert stands freezing but he doesn't care,Hismemorial gleaming keeping snow out his hair,His wifeQueen Victoria, must be more than just chilly,But she remainssitting regally in a white Piccadilly.
No busesor people to soil her scene,For oncethe whole city's immaculately clean,Thepavements are buried, the fountains all frozen,But stillI plough on through the path that I've chosen.
Sackvilleglitters - and sparkles with frost,Turingsits snowed in, his bench buried, lost,Where Jackhas been busy blowing his breathe,Coatingthe apple that caused poor Alan's death.
I slip andI slide down a deserted King Street,Crunchingthe snow that lies under my feet,Fresh,crispy powder that continues to fall,Like I'vestepped into a life-sized snow storm ball.
Neptune bendsover, globe coated in white,Not even Poseidoncan turn back their flight,Wave afterwave flutter and blanket the sky,And stillthere's no sign of a passerby.
My nextfriend is Cobdam - the industrialist,He's coveredin white where snowflakes have kissed,Thestatues are the only ones sharing my treat,As I crushuntarnished snow under my feet.
MarketStreet's dormant, a ghost town it's true,The city soquiet like judgement day's due,The snoweven masks last night's dirt in the gutter,Everythingcovered by the snowflakes that flutter.  Deansgateis shrouded in blinding white,Two foot atleast, a most alluring of sights,Usually peopleare bustling and surging,Nowcovered in unspoilt –snow- that is virgin.
Soonworkers'll walk through this postcard scene,Rufflingthe blanket as their wellies pound clean,Theirfootsteps uncaringly melting the snow,As ontotheir work the masses wearily go.
They'llmoan and they'll curse that the bus didn't run,The tramsstuck in Sale, the trains didn't come, The carsneed defrosting, their engines are cold,Thecouncil gritters didn't grit where they're told.
In thehills it caused chaos, snowing folk in,But I justsee the beauty and never the sin,Walkingalone in our snow covered city,My Manchester's never looked so perfectly pretty.
Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon. Available for just $1.99 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC orKindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2 

Panic on the streets of Manchester

Panic on the streets of Manchester  With hishands down his pants, keeping 'em warm,Blacktrackie in his socks like a uniform,Mooching roundtown looking ten men with his clones,Listeningto gangster shite on moody mobile phones.
"Alrightar kid you 'avin' it?" He's got the shameless patter,Just waitingfor the dibble's lights so he can shout out scatter,"You'zebuzzin' yet," he prattles on, "tonight is fuckin' mint," "Thestreets are ours, it's payback time, it's payday for the skint."
Anotherwindow crashes in; the looters all steam through,Anotherjean store ransacked in a fleeting second or two,Rush it,rush it, deal with it, they're kicking out the glass,Thenpulling at each other to make sure that they get past.
To makesure their greed gets in the store, there's nothing they won't lift,Thecarnage quick yet organised, their larceny is swift,Shouts andscreams and whooping prove the sadness in the air,Detachedfrom our society, they really couldn't care.
Sirensshriek like rape alarms but pilferers don't mind,They'reout to get their hands on anything that they can find,Littleshops are smashed up too; it's not just the big chains, Swarms oflooting locust swoop, sending business down the drain.
Anoff-licence on Portland Street has had its guts ripped out,Its ownerstanding shell-shocked, too scared to scream or shout,His familybusiness ruined as the marauding mob moves on,They justcan't see the savagery in the crimes that they've just done.
Shop aftershop is ransacked; streets crunch with broken glass,No riotingRangers fans are here and there's been no IRA blast,An eveningof pure madness but we've got our own to thank,Coz everysingle one of them was probably born a Manc.  Going onand on for hours, no tough tactics are used,Market,Portland, Oldham Street systematically abused,Yet thelooters don't look downtrodden, or like they need to eat,They dripdesigner branding on their hoodies and their feet.
There'syoung girls too among them, they really have no shame,Posing forthe film crews for their five minutes of fame,Thereisn't any argument or statement they want to make, Notfighting for a movement, they just came here to take.
And tocause panic on the streets of Manchester, the looters tore us apart,But in theweeks that followed we saw true Mancunian heart,The socialsickness of that evening will always probably fester,But thetrue people of this town will always heart Manchester.
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.
BuyChild Number Three, the first of four Manchester-based thrillers available fromAmazon. Available for just $1.99 (available fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ

POEM: Panic on the streets of Manchester

Panic on the streets of Manchester  With hishands down his pants, keeping 'em warm,Blacktrackie in his socks like a uniform,Mooching roundtown looking ten men with his clones,Listeningto gangster shite on moody mobile phones.
"Alrightar kid you 'avin' it?" He's got the shameless patter,Just waitingfor the dibble's lights so he can shout out scatter,"You'zebuzzin' yet," he prattles on, "tonight is fuckin' mint," "Thestreets are ours, it's payback time, it's payday for the skint."
Anotherwindow crashes in; the looters all steam through,Anotherjean store ransacked in a fleeting second or two,Rush it,rush it, deal with it, they're kicking out the glass,Thenpulling at each other to make sure that they get past.
To makesure their greed gets in the store, there's nothing they won't lift,Thecarnage quick yet organised, their larceny is swift,Shouts andscreams and whooping prove the sadness in the air,Detachedfrom our society, they really couldn't care.
Sirensshriek like rape alarms but pilferers don't mind,They'reout to get their hands on anything that they can find,Littleshops are smashed up too; it's not just the big chains, Swarms oflooting locust swoop, sending business down the drain.
Anoff-licence on Portland Street has had its guts ripped out,Its ownerstanding shell-shocked, too scared to scream or shout,His familybusiness ruined as the marauding mob moves on,They justcan't see the savagery in the crimes that they've just done.
Shop aftershop is ransacked; streets crunch with broken glass,No riotingRangers fans are here and there's been no IRA blast,An eveningof pure madness but we've got our own to thank,Coz everysingle one of them was probably born a Manc.  Going onand on for hours, no tough tactics are used,Market,Portland, Oldham Street systematically abused,Yet thelooters don't look downtrodden, or like they need to eat,They dripdesigner branding on their hoodies and their feet.
There'syoung girls too among them, they really have no shame,Posing forthe film crews for their five minutes of fame,Thereisn't any argument or statement they want to make, Notfighting for a movement, they just came here to take.
And tocause panic on the streets of Manchester, the looters tore us apart,But in theweeks that followed we saw true Mancunian heart,The socialsickness of that evening will always probably fester,But thetrue people of this town will always heart Manchester.
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.
BuyChild Number Three, the first of four Manchester-based thrillers available fromAmazon. Available for just $1.99 (available fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on thisblog.
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Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillersavailable from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $1.99 (fori-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ