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 Ode to Bridgend

A sizeable centre,
But a familiar territory.
Always old faces,
But always new faces too.
Always threats
And girls, and breasts
And legs and skirts and heels
And fat slappers and fat lips
And lipstick and perms and bobs,
And the odd pretty girl
And strong accents
And stiff drinks
And beer - much beer.
And flirting;
Talk of work, talk of money,
Who’s with who - who’s she? -
Old talk of school,
Of futures unseen,
Of sport, of who’s in the team,
And who’s she?
She’s with me - oh, I see.
And fighting -
Just having a laugh,
Or a fight for the bar,
For a place in the queue.
Or old rivals on the dance floor
Fighting over a bird,
Or over something they thought they’d heard.
And the music stays the same,
The attitude stays the same,
The humour, the fashions,
The drugs, the stories,
The mentalities, the poets,
The townies, the crusties,
The chips, the jobs,
Ways of life, depression,
Joy, longing, wanting, having,
It’s the same old shit,
And then we go home with our cheese & chips.
Bridgend’s the place they all call a hole,
So why do I feel it’s the heart and soul?