Up the Pool

I'm going up the 'Pool, from down the smoke below to taste me mum's jam Sarnis and see our Aunty Flo, The candy floss salesman watches ladies in the sand down for freaky weekends in the hope that they'll be meeting Mr. Universe. The iron tower smiles down upon the silver sea and along the golden mile they'll be swigging mugs of tea. The politicians there who've come to take the air while posing for the daily press will look around and blame the mess on Edward Pier. There'll be buckets, spades and bingo, cockles, muscels, rainy days seaweed and sand-castles, icy waves. Deck-chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces dangling down, a sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze. We're going up the 'Pool from down the Smoke below to taste me mum's jam Sarnis and see our Aunty Flo, The candy floss salesman watches ladies in the sand down for freaky weekends in the hope that they'll be meeting Mr. Universe. Oh, Blackpool, oh, Blackpool.