Anthony Cooney Visit @TnGTheBand on twitter.

Black and grey anticipation,

awaits the trains at Whitby station.

Come observe the chaotic thrall

A carrion call, the Whitby Crawl.

Turn on your flash, for camera tale.

It makes our skin so very pale.

You may approach and seek connection.

Upon inspection, there’s no reflection.

See the Abbey on the hill.

We come to shock, we come to thrill.

Beside the graves a morbid ball.

The eerie call,the Whitby Crawl.

Retain glad thoughts, and happy news.

Summer palettes and Autumn hues.

Lets promenade at Pannetts Park.

We prefer it black and humour dark.

Then levitate, one and ninety nine.

Retracing steps when you were mine.

In Arguments yard, a Gothic brawl.

Embrace it all, the Whitby Crawl.

In trance like queues, forward we move.

In leather boots and thick heeled shoes.

Sharp teeth sink in, to fresh caught prey.

Behold the Magpie, “Catch of the day”.

Judge my shadow, observe me well.

Lets engage inside The Royal Hotel.

A Summers rose, now Autumns fall.

Kiss me quick on the Whitby Crawl.

Begrudge the sun, embrace the moon.

Fear not the Steak at the Withered Spoon.

Or garlic cloves at Cosa Nostra.

See the dead walk, at the Whitby Costa.

Like bats we flee from B&B caves.

In taxis, cars, and bus like trains.

Close the lids await the call

The supernatural, Whitby Crawl

I played for the Boys Club Team
From seven years through to my teens.

In a football kit with many holes.
In a team that scored so many goals.

Where angry men from our estate.
Who would come and point and shout and hate.

At any team that dared to play.
Against The Boys Club on that day.

Then on my retirement.
I google searched the internet.

To see what had happened to us all.
The boys that played local football.

One left four kids and a wife.
A pool cue and a stanley knife.

Another lad who ran up the wing
Lost it all to heroin.

Two best pals who always scored
Lost their life in a senseless war.

One emigrated, to canada.
Died in a car crash in vancouver.

Two lost their lives to a lung disease
Working on the river Tees.

But the biggest loss to the side.
Was a dark cloud thats called suicide.

She picks up her phone, taps “i’m not coming home”
Had enough of the wind and the rain.
Need A long holiday down Benidorm way.
Got a one way ticket to Spain.

Nanas out of control”, in an old mobile home.
With a man she met at the bingo.
He’s tanned crisp and lean, got a scooter machine.
And a grasp of the local lingo.

Dos Cerveza por favor one for me and one for her
Its cheap and the scenery is stunning.

Going to stay here maybe. Bingos twice daily.
Dinners 5 euro and comes with a pudding.

Away from the strikes, the cold winter nights.
Eyes glued to the electrical meter.
Dodging the marchers, people sleeping in arches.
Food banks and a 1 bar heater.

I’ve met an old man with his own caravan.
No angry dogs or violent neighbours.
Please cancel the milk and forward my mail.
Tell the kids that i’ll facetime them laters.

Dos Cerveza por favor, one for me and one for her
Its cheap and the scenery is stunning.

Going to stay here maybe.The bingos twice daily.
Dinners 5 euro and comes with a pudding.

There’s charity stores, con leche of course.
In the bars i’m treat like a queen.
Where we drink and we’ll kiss until totally pissed.
Then drive home on his scooter machine.

I’m settling in well, the companies just swell.
There’s a large band of old British cronies.
Each month i’m delighted to be kindly invited.
To a charity night for stray dogs and ponies.

It’s a seaside town of a thousand souls.

The retired, the junkies and those on the dole.

In summer, the sea and population swells.

See the swing of truncheon, hear the creak of cells.

Give me the job, of the towns pied piper.

I’d arrest the drugged the drunk and hyper.

Investigate the fashion for skin and bones.

Take an ID snap of the rats with phones.

Patrol the promenade looking mean and moody.

Stop and search each sallow faced hoody.

I would harass and hound each big time seller.

Impound cars if parked, on double yellow.

Beware the pied piper of seaside town.

Dance to my tune or i’ll take you down.

If I was younger and had a soul.

But i’m retired, a junkie and claiming dole.

Mrs big glasses. She gives out the passes.

Lacking in humour. Spreads every rumour

First in the loop. Chicken Soup.

Mrs “No morning greeting” Loves a Teams meeting.

First to react. Blows smoke up the crack.

Favourite dish. Micro waved fish

Skinny and pasty.Quotes health and safety.

Knows every trick. Always on the sick.

Migraines and stress. Celery and Cress.

Loud and naughty. Sweary and saucy.

Laughs like a mule. Nobody’s fool.

Everyone’s a winner. Fast food dinner.

Mrs Logical. Her life’s so tragical.

Sticks her nose. Into everyone’s woes

For every lunch. Pot Noodles and monster munch.

Mrs HR. Fake Lashes and bra.

Fake smiles are kept. For the management.

Hard to please. Crackers and Triangular cheese.

Miss leather trousers. Top internet browser.

Blouses aplenty. In box always empty.

Looks underfed. Gluten free bread.

Black and grey anticipation.

To greet the trains, at Whitby Station.

Come observe our chaotic thrall.

A carrion call.The Whitby Crawl.

Turn on your flash, for camera tale.

It makes our skin so very pale.

You may approach and seek connection.

Upon inspection, there’s no reflection.

See the Abbey on the hill.

We come to shock, we come to thrill.

Beside the graves a morbid ball.

The eerie call, The Whitby Crawl.

Keep glad thoughts, and happy news.

Summer palettes and Autumn hues.

To promenade at Pannetts Park.

We prefer it black and humour dark.

Wind blows our cloaks, One and Ninety Nine.

Retracing steps when you were mine.

In Arguments Yard, a Gothic brawl.

Embrace it all, the Whitby Crawl.

In trance like queues, forward they move.

In leather boots and thick heeled shoes.

Sharp teeth sink in, to fresh caught prey.

Behold the Magpie, “Catch of the day”.

Judge my shadow, observe me well.

Lets engage outside, the Elsinore Hotel.

This Summers rose, now Autumns fall.

Kiss me quick on the Whitby Crawl.

Begrudge the sun, embrace the moon.

Fear not the Steak at the Withered Spoon.

Or garlic cloves at Cosa Nostra.

See the walking dead at the Whitby Costa.

Like bats we flee from B&B caves.

In taxis, cars, and bus like trains.

Close the lids await the call

Of Supernatural Whitby Crawl

Tobacco stained fingers press down on heavy strings.

The crowd stares back in anger as the drunken singer sings.

A whiskey bottle hangs from his hands, breath an alcoholic mist.

Sweat and abuse, and all his truths. Now everybody’s pissed.

Paddy Django strums his banjo. Penny whistle fills the air

A violin jumps in quickly. The pianist couldn’t care

Rude boys and girls are doing twirls. Eileen’s feet are off the ground

The punks are river dancing. Going round and round.

Hugh grabs a shy wall flower. Pulls her onto the floor.

At first she showed reluctance. But now she’s wanting more.

Tonight the stout is flowing out. The smell of hormones and desire.

The singers words speak of a cause. The tempos getting higher.

Dance with me tonight Eileen. Don’t look the other way

I’ll come home to meet your mammy, if you let me get my way.

Ignore these drunken arseholes. All vagabonds and rogues

I’m here in Camden town tonight. A roadie with the Pogues.

There’s no saints on my street only thieves and sinners.

Fallen Angels, abusers and losers but no winners.

Pimps and old meat with stale dreams fall into the gutter.

Avoid the glares, don’t stare and welcome to the jungle.

We don’t do small talk or discuss terms and conditions.

Our offices are open dusk to dawn to satisfy your wishes.

By the massage parlour are family cars and fathers.

There’s the international supermarket which the young guns like to target.

The ladies hold no contracts and seek no approval.

No PAYE or checkups. They are base and they are brutal.

We dont do small talk or discuss terms and conditions.

Our offices are open dusk to dawn to satisfy your wishes.

See there aren’t any saints on my street only thieves and sinners.

Broken cowboys and old queens getting old and thinner.

Guns, knives and heartaches with violence and hate.

Pay the rate don’t negotiate. Then watch them ingest or regurgitate.

The sun disappears down the oceans throat.

Clear skies tonight will guide our fishing boat.

Lazy blue waters rise slowly then fall.

A peaceful sight on a beautiful night.

Dark rum and whiskey down the captains throat.

Starboard and port to unsettle the boat.

Sad old sea shanty’s the. a sirens cry.

Man overboard and your captain is mine.

And it’s down and down and deeper I go.

Swimming with the mermaids daughters.

The consequence of no common sense.

Mixing whiskey and salty sea waters.

Throw me a life jacket and throw me a rope.

Send up a bright flare to give me some hope.

The crew disregarded and sailed out of site.

“Tell my wife that I love her on this beautiful night.

And it’s down and down and deeper I go.

Swimming with the mermaids daughters.

The consequence, of no common sense.

Mixing whiskey with salty sea water.