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Merakai

by Brian Harris

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The Witch's Hat (Northolt One Summer's Day in the Sixties) Playing Pooh Sticks in Yeading Brook Though we didn't know the name Past St.Mary's, under the bridge and further down the way Did we walk? No, we always ran avoiding pavement cracks Down the lane to the park On to the Witch's Hat! The water fountain, another treat Tennis courts and bowling green Now council owned but vestiges of times no longer seen Sinking sun and grumbling tums Saying time to head on home The parky's coming Time to leg it Come on, for god's sake run! Islip Manor, Eastcote Lane? we have to choose our course We scarper quickly off home for tea All smothered in brown sauce A bike bell and a whistle Announce Dad's arrival home "Hello Son, been up to much?" He asks in northern tone "Nah nothing much Dad" I reply another Boring Northolt Day Has just flown by and by
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Small Balls (Playing Footy in the Playground with Tennis Balls) Playing with small balls No big balls at all Small balls not big balls That's what we were told Playground mayhem Each and every day Playground mayhem Everyone in the way 3 games per court Chaos ensued No rush goalies no time to lose Playing with small balls No big balls at all Small balls not big balls That's what we were told Choose teams now kick off, lets play Sharp memory needed No other way! Who's on my team? No matter just boot it No space to line up No time to shoot it Playing with small balls No big balls at all Small balls not big balls That's what we were told It's under the fence So under you go Don't get caught or To the Beak you go Spare ball revealed Games carry on Lost ball retrieved Well done my son! Playing with small balls No big balls at all Small balls not big balls That was the playground rule
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The Other End of The Central Line I ain't a Cockney mate Nowhere near They'd have to be Bloody big bells to hear Cut from a different cloth At the other end of the line We’re No better We’re No worse No more la di da refined Just born (and raised) At the other end Of the Central Line Middlesex Men Identity stolen Boundaries moved Now forgotten But once spread far Round to Stratford le Bow Irony noted what a blow We ain't Cockneys But you might like to know A lot of you are Middlesaxons But it just don’t show
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FOOTBALL LADS ALLIANCE(Lyrics Robert Cunliffe) I'm a walking cliché,
 A parody of myself,
 An anachronism,
 A shit left on a shelf. A looming, leering legacy 
Lurching up the lane,
 A pot-bellied pestilence
 On the move again. (Chorus) Middle-aged munchkins, 
Masquerades of men,
 Half-boy half-biscuits
 Marching past Big Ben. Who looks down upon them
 In fear and in shame,
 Fear of what they're capable
 And shame of the same. Troops of old boy soldiers
 With Muslims on the brain, 
Afghanistan, Iran, Oman,
 It's all just means the same. Another barmy army 
Conscripted to cause pain, 
Heading up to London, 
It's Hastings once again. Fight them on the beaches, 
Fight them in the fields,
 Then back home to Bedlam
 For cans and Happy Meals®. Football Lads Alliance, 
United round a ball, 
Terrace temper tantrums,
 Veterans of fuck all.

credits

released May 29, 2020

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Brian Harris London, UK

I died in the Punk Wars you know ...guts hanging out on the barbed wire in the women's loo down the Roxy.
Recently described as 'the West London Chris Difford', I still don't understand what that means-I'm the West London 'Me'!

Osmucon (Osaka Music Concern) is the label.
Snailpace Publishing
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