Liverpool+Saga

[|A people’s poem for Liverpool’s birthday]

An 800 line poem has been written by people from across Merseyside to celebrate Liverpool's 800th birthday.

BBC listener's and web users were invited to send in their contributions to The Liverpool Saga.

References to Everton FC feature frequently.

Mersey poet Roger McGough wrote the opening and closing verses, taking his inspiration from the creation of the original Letters Patent, although he admits that the first line was harder to pen than he had imagined.

Local poets Sylvia Hikens and Dave Ward whittled down over 500 submissions to create the 800 line Liverpool Saga. Apart from Roger McGough's introductory lines the whole saga has been written by Merseysiders.

“We’re talking about 800 years and the time of King John and so forth," says Roger McGough of the saga's span.

"There were no processors in those days no electricity – it would have been a quill pen or something started the whole thing and then 800 years later people working on a computer so its that moment of time and all that length of time."

There were over 3000 lines sent in for The Liverpool Saga covering subjects including the river, factories, sport, families, disasters and music across the 800 years of Liverpool's history.

When initially launching the Liverpool Saga project Roger McGough was clear about how he thought it would develop, “Its got to be Liverpudlian – it’ll be witty and cheeky and all those good things. I suggest four lines at most – it could be two lines or an image or something overheard. I’d rather have two good lines than twenty eight. Quotable lines.”

The Liverpool Saga was unveiled publicly on Saturday, 15 September by Roger McGough and Phil Redmond at Liverpool's St George's Hall during The Big History Show.

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 * The Liverpool Saga**

From the first tentative scratch of the pen To the keyboard’s final breathless amen, One poem. A patchwork of laughter and tears. Eight hundred lines. Eight hundred years.

800 years, oh what stories to be told By the people young and old - The bad times, the good times, tears and laughter. The next 800 memories are left to the young to tell thereafter.

I’m a Liver bird, verdigris and aloof. They made me their emblem, They made me rustproof And I’ll not leave this city, cos I’m tied to the roof.

Eight hundred lines is not enough To tell your twisting tale. What word will whisper lives now lost In a puff of wind and ghost of snow? So wind on through the years, old friend, For oh so old you are. I’ll carry you within my heart Though I wander near and far.

Seven streets, a pool and a castle, That’s how it all began. A port to sail to Ireland from Was King John’s crafty plan.

Jesters, jongleurs, troubadours, Mummers of St George. Through centuries of song and satire, Scouse-sharp wit was forged; From medieval minstrels Using humour as their tool, We are all born entertainers – Yet we’re nobody’s fool.

From first monk-steered ferry To great ocean liner Via car ferry Sea Cat What sight could be finer Than Liverpool’s lifeblood Murky and grey?

River Mersey wash over me, Whisper where your secrets lie. I shall tell you of my family And promise not to cry.

A city haunted by her past lies dreaming of her future: The river has seen it all and bears silent witness.

Through Jesse Hartley’s growing dock Came merchant shipping round the clock. The port of Liverpool expanded With every cargo newly landed.

As Mersey pilots pass the bar, They’re guided into dock By sighting our lady Graces And the Liver clock!

The ferry waits but not the tide. Blue-jerseyed men shout “Gangway Clear!” We’re chugging away Away from the Pier.

I’m off on the Ferry To New Brighton Sands, Jam butties and water bottles Clutched in my hand. Wind in my hair, Salt water on my face - My Liverpool, My home, My own special place.

Wondrous river, Full of power and might Flows past a city, A heritage site.

Has anyone heard the Liver Bird - a song, a shout, a single word? An “alright,” a “hiya”? from up there on high Nah, me neither – maybe it’s shy.

Come on down to Liverpool beach: Mist rising from the water in cold dawn air. The sky is on fire: red, gold and blue. Those seagulls, mate, They’re bleedin’ hard. They’re loud and tough and battle scarred. They’d mug you for a pasty crust And knock you to the floor concussed

The ships and the docks and the overhead train - Childhood memories…

As a lad with me mates On a summer Sunday afternoon, We’d walk from the bus at St Johns Lane Down to the Pier Head, Through the eerily quiet Dale Street and Water Street To see Sandy and the escapologist Entertain the crowds.

“ ‘ere luv duz dis bus stop at the Pier ‘ead?” “Der’ll be a bloomin’ big splash if it duzn’t!” The smiling driver said.

They was launching a ship in Camell Laird But the bottle wouldn’t break. All hands were standing puzzled Til some wag in the crowd Shouted out loud “Give it to Dixie, He’ll break it with ‘is ‘ead!”

Granda Van Engel passing through To a New World wide and new Placed his luggage, Carefully laid On Hope Street flags, And there he stayed.

The Ark Royal, Majestic great ghost in dry dock, Posh Wavertree ladies with perm and best frock, All captured on camera, Hand printed in matt. Hail E Chambre Hardman, His hypo and hat!

Famous old ships: The Reina del Mar, Empress of Canada, Off to places afar; But we sailed to Woodside On the Egremont ferry And Royal Iris cruises, Where we all got so merry

In this city of music and seamen, It’s fitting the Phil took a stand In honouring the Titanic courage Of the men who played on in the band. They played on as the great ship was sinking, Played over that terrible din, Then the music died along with them As the Atlantic gathered in.

And of course the river, Soupy brown and ancient, Cradling shipping With its own sweet Mersey sound; Bubbling with sea-shanty language, Vessels loaded, Their bellies swelling; Fitted, kitted, Africa bound.

Yes – remember the sailor He who worked for a pittance, Subbed to the last penny – paid off – no balance. All spent on ale or in brothels – none wasted.

Try to envisage the port – Horses, cranes and derricks, Swinging goods, hands grabbing, Groups of people, Some forever leaving, Many sobbing.

No longer needed: The Floating Palaces, The Tramp Steamers, Tugs and Gig boats, No longer needed: Phenomenal skills They used to build the Big Boats.

The waterfront, human concourse, Comes, goes, returns, remains, Travels many routes. Our family, our familiar.

What will become of my growing son Now that times are bleak and the ships have gone?

A city haunted by her past lies dreaming of her future. The city has seen it all and bears silent witness.

Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets: Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

In 1215 King John sat down, When Liverpool was hardly a town, To protect the rights of everybody And included us ‘cos he’d heard of Doddy

Frank Hornby lived in Liverpool, With his wife, one girl and two boys. In an effort to try and amuse his kids He started to make his own toys. The toys went down well, He developed his skills, And to cut a long story short, “Meccano Sets”, “Hornby” and “Dinky” were born – Thanks Frank for the pleasures you’ve brought.

Joseph Williamson was a philanthropist Who lived in Edge Hill and could not resist Creating work for unemployed men; Building underground tunnels, again and again.

Williamson, the King of Edge Hill, Said “Pick up that spade and no slopin’ Get digging a tunnel to the nearest pub. Try “The Legs”. They’re probably open.”

It took me to Manchester and back, A “Rocket” that moves on a track. It runs by steam power, THIRTY NINE miles an hour! At those speeds – I’ve had my wack!

She spoke for our Dockers and for womens’ rights, On behalf of the poor she fought many long fights. She campaigned to get family allowance accepted: Eleanor Rathbone – greatly respected.

Mother Noblett – “Molly Bushell” – loved by all Blues. She jigs when they win and cries when they lose, Molly still throws her sweets to the crowd as they sing; Somehow “Kirkby Mints” doesn’t have the same ring.

Not all our years are filled with pride and glory. Behind the “highs” there lurks a different story. A town condones a practice inhumane, As evil traders seek commercial gain.

Long long ago, black folk were forced To cross the ocean waves. Our forebears sinned to gather wealth By making them their slaves.

Where would we be without the friends of James Penny, Who lined their pockets with ill gotten gains From poor black people locked up in chains.

We badly treated many slaves, So far across the ocean waves. Our greedy fathers, just for cash Beat those poor souls with strap and lash

William Roscoe was a Liverpool son Who wanted to end what had begun - And with the abolition of slavery He helped to set the people free.

My father, a docker from Dingle, Born in the shadow of the Mersey. No poet he, or MP could be - Just plain “William Roscoe” he is to me.

Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets: Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

From “Battling Bessie” who fought for the cause And the “Liverpool Pals” who died in the wars To so many Scousers we’d like to say thanks - But let’s not forget the “Liverpool Yanks”

In Anfield Cemetery Lay the great and the good, Once proud merchant, Policeman and maid. Classless in death as they turn into mud - No deference shown in this heavenly parade.

Maggie Barry’s steps were her pride and joy. (I used to watch her scrub them When just a little boy) - On her knees she toiled away, She’d scrub and scrub the dirt away. Taught me how to work and play And mind my step along the way.

I am one of the ragged children Not acceptable to public view. So to ease the public conscience I’m shipped to a country new.

The spirits of gilded dragons circle the Chinese Arch To guard the misty streets around As the shells of a million red firecrackers Shower poppies to the ground.

Down slides the sun, Blood red and golden heading into the stars - Nothing left but the clubs and bars

Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets; Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

One river Two Liver birds Three Graces Four mop topped singers with world famous faces

The Fifties and Sixties; what a time to be alive. Days out at New Brighton and Harrison Drive; New Brighton Tower where the bands would perform; The Beatles, The Searchers and the great Rory Storm.

Blessed in rhythm of local bands, Chippies and hot dog stands, Our town had a teddy boy story: The lads dressed like Billy Fury.

Birth of Merseybeat - The echo of the music still hangs on every street. Here errant sons of Merseyside Misspend remembered youth, As they recollect the Sixties And bend a little truth.

In the Grafton Grab-A-Granny And there were plenty, A ten to two dance To a tremble in the entry.

The Mardi Gras, The All Fours Club, Victoriana, La Pez Espada, The Pen and Wig: This is the Sixties where we dance and sing And meet a fella to get a ring.

Home of the Beatles; Scouse started too. The first shook the world; the other’s a stew.

Tocky, Crocky, Walton on the Hill - Wah, The La’s, three and in. Dockers, rockers, flying pickets, Liverpool, Everton, Derby tickets.

A cry from Dale Street of “Exxy, Echo”. Brown mixed in alehouses whose names I don’t know. The Clock, the Locarno and places long gone, And screams from the Cavern of “I love you John!”

Down in the pubs, clubs And alleyways The poets were singing their songs …”It won’t be long now.”

We bred four lads with warblin’ gifts, Their talents were so rare. They put this city on the map - No quartet could compare.

Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets: Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

Adolf Hitler had a brother who lived just off Park Road. Alouse had married Bridget, who kept a tidy home. So when Adolf came to visit he was asked to do the chores. He said “Stuff you and yer dishes; I’d rather start a war”

The women of the war were left With very few provisions; Travelling to the fields of Kirkby To work amongst munitions.

The bombers came both night and day Throughout the merry month of May, Throughout the Blitz and decimation We never suffered desperation.

Winter of the dogs, spring of the siren. Keep your legs fit; there are no cars to ride on. Summer of storms; autumn of chaos And old Mother Earth still turns beneath us.

Jostling in my mother’s clasping arms, I sprang awake As on the landing and down the stairs in blinding black we flew. Beneath the throbbing drone of bombers seeking how to make A crumbled hell of Smithdown Road and a bloody human stew.

Damp cheeks, closed eyes, the little boy lay dreaming of family left behind, mother weeping,

Bombs falling; and of the adventures to come Aboard the Benares departing tomorrow.

Up from the docks into the town a fire watcher’s running. An unexploded bomb is down, “Tell the ARP help’s coming.” Stirrup pump heroes extinguish the flame, “Keep those fire buckets to hand, lady – Christ, here they come again.”

John Kirk got Liverpool’s first VC; The boy from the workhouse, the way it should be.

In the squalid Flanders trenches Tireless Captain Chavasse strives - Stemming lifeblood which is flowing From young Liverpudlian lives.

Marched into Europe, all heeding the call. The Liver Birds wept too many did fall. Mothers at home for their sons they do weep: Their offspring destroyed on the fields around Ypres.

The Admiralty regrets There was a disaster today And HMS Thetis is missing Somewhere in Liverpool Bay.

From scrubbing doorsteps in the war, t telling her life story to strangers on the bus - she loves Liverpool and Liverpool loves her.

A city haunted by her past lies dreaming of her future. The city has seen it all and bears silent witness.

Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets: Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

Ken Dodd and his tickling stick Has made us laugh til we cry. Sometimes I thought my sides would split As I dried the tears from my eye

As a Scouser - “How tickled I am.!” I was brought up on Scouse and Spam. Now, as an older and richer man, My wealth affords me Scouse and Ham

Ain’t the time to read your rhyme I’m on bacardisncokesnlagerlime N20filternnutz, oh yeah, nsome crisps - N den up at Yates’s kebabed out n pissed.

On Everton Brow, Spring Heeled Jack Swirled his cloak across his back. Spring Heeled Jack, his eyes aflame, Lit the sky in a lightning crack… Never to be seen again.

Carefree, unshod as children are wont chasing rabbits galore, while waiting for Dad on the Cast Iron Shore.

In Scotland Road I remember when there were black clad women and limbless men Snotty nosed kids with dirty necks no shoes on their feet, no arse in their kecks

When cholera broke out across our city in 1832, A community turned to a woman named Kitty. She treated people with kindness and infection with scorn And from her example the “Wash House” was born.

Kitty Wilkinson was the Housewives Choice. “Soap and hot water” she said in loud voice. “Wash frequently your clothes, your bedding and child And Cholera and Typhus will be gone from your mind”

Toast at the wash house, a penny a slice - and tea in a cracked cup sheer Paradise

Darkened streets washed clean with rain. Flickering gas lights glow and wane. Raincoats pulled up o’er your head - rushing home to get to bed

“Scuse me officer, what time is it, like?” “I can’t tell yer love we’re out on strike… Oi you, stop! that’s my bike.” “You won’t need it mate – you’re out on strike!”

Balsa wood models from Hobbies; hiding from bobbies; being scared of the dark and ghosts

Gaslight armposts with two arms for our swing ropes…

Down the cobbled slope of St Domingo Road Comes a horse and cart with heavy load. Children follow With bucket and spade And if the horse performs, a profit is made.

Silver spoons and crustless butties! Forget all that jest… We were weaned on scouse and bacon ribs Puts hairs on your chest.

It’s 2007 - I’ve gone quite posh. I drink dinner wine now and have some dosh. But I can never forget that little house and me mam’s big pan of steaming Scouse.

The penny machine on Central Station that gave me so much pleasure. It produced a metal label of my name that I would always treasure.

A penny return on the 29 tram, A bottle of water and sarnies of jam; A trip to New Brighton to play on the beach: Who said that Utopia was out of our reach?

It’s got a ceiling that doesn’t leak, This monstrous concrete funnel, But great for those that cannot swim - Is our famous Mersey Tunnel.

They drilled and they dug and they blasted away. Some lost their lives in the cause of Queensway. “Well Done” said King George – so they told us at school: Then with some of the rock they made Otterspool.

As kids in summer we could travel anywhere On Green Goddesses for a penny return fare. No doors closing at the front or back - And you could run and jump aboard As they moved off along the track.

Across Greaty to Scotland Road, Watch the lorries unload, Pinch an apple then on my toes - In my own Liverpool home.

Jam butties, pan of scouse, four in a bed, it’s cold in “are house”. It’s what I remember when I was a lad - I’ll love Liverpool till I’m not about.

Butties in a plassy bag, a tanner for our fare and down the Pier Head we’d go, without a worry or care. Tryin’ to bunk on the ferry, to go to Birkenhead, but getting caught and “logged” - so endin’ up in the museum instead.

Meccano and a football for the lad. A plan to follow to make him like my Dad. For the girl it’s a doll and a pram, Some cookery lessons, a recipe for Mam.

Hop on the bus; we’re going to town. Blacklers grotto is where we’re bound. It’s such a magical place to go especially with Santa and his “Ho, Ho, Ho!” Dripping wet in plastic macs, Waiting patiently by the door. “Can I ride him, can I ride him?” - The old rocking horse in Blackler’s Store

The Playhouse watches on like some awesome cool big brother, as Codman’s Punch hits PC Copper once more; and the new generation laughs loud and points while we step back in to the shoes our parents wore before.

No street corners, nor pub doorways did we stand. In the seventies we had a helping hand - we formed our minds and shaped our frames, playing ice hockey we made our names. God bless Silver Blades!

Going to work on the top deck of the No 8 tram your head would be in a cloud of cigarette smoke...

Gimme a Woodbine an a cuppa tea, Thas a real scouser breakfast.

A late 86 from Speke to Paradise Street. Its Monday morning cargo shifting listlessly In fag burned seats Heading down to the sea

En route to Tate and Lyle on a cold dark Vauxhall morning - suddenly from behind came without any warning: antlers and hooves and a powerful snortin - a Lord Derby stag off the Irish boat came cavortin. Did they believe me when I arrived on station? They said “Son, all you saw was a large Alsatian.”

“My nan worked for Tate’s,” said me mate, As he stirred two sugars in his tea.

Refinery some might say, From Lyle to modern Tate. This day – oh – for eight hundred more Before we closed.

I was just reminiscing about the things my mam did with the Liverpool Echo, when I was a kid when the new lino was laid, to keep damp at bay. It was laid on the floorboards as a great underlay.

A Liverpool Love Poem: You trap my dreams, Nutmeg my soul, You’re Shankly’s words, And Robbie’s goals, You’re my European Cup Won in May, My Kenny Dalglish My Steve Heighway.

The sound from the Kop when the “Reds” score a goal - it grabs at the heart and rips at the soul.

Everton, the People’s Club, formed in 1878, Saint Domingo’s finest, They thought it would be great to be the first to represent the new sport in the city, Dean – Ball – Inchy, Sheedy – Arteta, Football so pretty.

Rides on the ferry when we broke up from school, Picnics with Mum down at Otterspool. Billy Liddell, Ron Yeats, Tommy Smith, Emlyn Hughes, Six penneth of chips wrapped in yesterday’s news.

A city divided by colours - red and blue. But when it matters we stick together like glue. For the 96 we showed dignity and pride and shared prayers and tears, together, side by side.

And then in the ‘70s we were linked up with the “Mancs” The M62 – to replace the East Lancs. Pity the builders didn’t see it through. They forgot Junction 3 – oh - and One and Two

I am your city. You are my people. You’ve built me a synagogue, a church with a steeple. I’ve given you shelter and when you roam, a river to leave me; a welcome back home.

Arrived in the Pool in ’59 - Did 23 trips on the Blue Funnel Line, Married a girl from Liverpool 8, 42 years on, she’s still my mate.

We’re very bohemian apparently, but I won’t swap teabags for latte. We’ve got ghosts at the bottom of Bold Street. The seagulls don’t land on the river, they have apartments overlooking the bay.

Will the Landing Stage float? Will the Liver Birds break loose? Will the Forum be finished in time?

Nationalities lumped in a giant melting pot drew the best ingredients which were preciously hot. A conundrum of cultures, roped in one house. And the outcome, world famous, a new word – that’s “Scouse.”

Blue and red. Roman and Prody: I think that covers everybody… Wait - Chinese. Jew. Black. Brown: Then eight hundred years. Now that’s our town.

Truth, hurt, a twisted romance, leading the mind in a Merseyside dance. Skies above, rain, sunbeams and tears - multicoloured visions for 800 years.

From the ground rose towers of glass and crystal To make the city a little more mystical.

The glass towers are rising up for the billionaire investors - but for the seagulls and pigeons it’s just another place to nest in!

Atop Beetham Plaza, binoculars in hand, watching kids in New Brighton catching crabs in the sand. City skylines a changin’, and morphing so fast - let’s embrace the new culture, not forgetting our past.

The last towers fall in on themselves, Wild flowers open as the dust settles.

Cranes fill the sky, a hole in each street, A time of transition where old and new meet; A city transformed, but at what cost? A new “Paradise” – or a Paradise Lost?

Too bad that the city lost out on the trams - Soon the Manchester system will reach Blundellsands. Our lines are there waiting, all over the town, Buried with forethought, just six inches down.

Sun goes down over the Mersey, Stars come out to shine. Moonbeams flow in the afterglow On this old home of mine.

This city is great And how do I know? There’s nowhere on earth I’d rather go.

Arrived by ship from Singapore; Married my nan during the First World War

We can come back, But not go back - Yet this old town Holds us to itself. Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets: Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

“Nil satis, nisi optimum.” “You’ll never walk alone.” - Such mottos help to sum up life for folk In our Liverpool home.

Southern snobs decry us, cos it’s a-la-mode: Still think we’re wearing skins, still covered in woad. Their supercilious style makes us wanna blow a fuse. We’re too polite to tell them where to stick their southern views.

For each and every year, ‘neath our Liver bird wings This city has spawned the most extraordinary things. So today the world gasps in envious awe – “Ar ay! Let’s hope there’ll be eight hundred more!”

What more do you need from a city like this? Two football teams, two cathedrals and pop stars with hits. You name it, we’ve got it. We do it in style.

Well earned pride upon our streets, From sporting legend to Mersey beats; Our quick witted humour is world renowned And our local lingo really is “dead sound”

“2007 and we’re 800 years old my dear esquire!” Boomed the Scouser proudly to his son. Then leaning forward he mildly enquired; “Are ya reading dat paper wot yer sittin’ on?”

You called me from the Irish waters. For you I birthed my sons and daughters. Your culture grows; your streets tell stories Of years gone by and future glories.

Those blessed with talent always go, Consistent with life’s ebb and flow. Forget their roots where they were born - Like Mersey Goldfish, never spawn

Eight hundred different stories, eight hundred different songs; Eight hundred different cultures, eight hundred different tongues; Eight hundred different rhythms in eight hundred different streets: Eight hundred hundred different hearts all dancing to one beat.

Seagulls hover Above rusted cranes. No more the sound Of dockside trains. All has gone, Everything’s changed.

There was Auntie Mary, Uncle Ronnie, Grandad an’ our Nanna, With a dozen more behind the door Around the ol’ piana. We danced like crazy to “Bumps-a-Daisy” An’ Grandad acted the clown.

J’member when we went de pics to see de film stars? Waitin’ in the queue outside, der was always one ars. J’member the buskers as you waited in the queue who played an’ sang der heart out ‘til dey’d made a bob or two?

The docklands ever bustling, Strong horses hitched to carts Waiting to be loaded With goods from distant parts.

The pan’s full of water on the gas, prayers for no rain said, It’s washing day. The Dolly tub and peg with turbo action and mam’s sweat, Clean clothes for Mass this Sunday.

“’old on der la’ It’s Derby day. Eh Ma! Pack us a butty. It’s great to watch der Reds an’ Blues Dey play der weerlds’ best footie!”

It’s Liverpool for Life. Saturday morning, tram to town. Back of the Market, swans around; Pets galore – perhaps a vulture? Whose ghosts haunt our City of Culture? The town of many colours, but only one accent.

Why pay an advertising agency To come up with the hype? This Scouser’s got the motto.

You can always tell a Scouser - But you can’t tell him much. “I used to werk for Cunard!” said me Nan. “’Ow ‘ard?” said me Grandad.

Funnels red and black and various hue But my heart’s in India Building With blue funnels - “Stacks of black and blue”

Carry your suitcases, heavy as stones The length of Hope Street. Everyman waits In the shadow of a space ship ready to take off With its carousel of headlights, its cargo of saints.

I’m sure I saw John and George in Mathew Street Tapping their feet to that same Beatle beat. I nearly joined them ‘cos I really wanted to But they had disappeared into the night’s blue.

Unkempt, scraggy beard, Plays guitar made from card. “Dring, Dring, Dring…” - he plays on, Guise unmarred.

Uni girl and a local boy Liaised for laughter and beers; Then she left for a job in Essex. This happens every three years.

A skyline to rival the best in the world; Not New York or Sydney: those two Liver birds Bring a lump to the throat as I remember my home. Liverpool is much more than this humble poem.

The Liver, the Customs House, Beautiful Cunard; We boast of all three graces And McGough, the great poet, our home made bard. There’ll be plenty for him to edit He’s only writing the first and last verse But he’ll get all the credit.

One poem. A patchwork of laughter and tears. Eight hundred lines. Eight hundred years. From the first tentative scratch of the pen To the keyboards final breathless amen.

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