mcr calling - paul heaton + jacqui abbott lyrics
[intro]
[verse 1]
it was jar of pickled onion, some cheese and onion crisps
a city in the 70’s that no*one would’ve kissed
before lgbtq, it was simply one*off wrist
and that was manchester calling
[verse 2]
it was the hassle of haçienda entry and stupid acid house
when johnny marr’s cool outweighed stephen patrick’s mouth
before alf ’bleeding’ garnett of lancashire ‘bleeding’ south
that was manchester calling
[verse 3]
it was go straight to strangeways, get outta jail free
then cruising through rusholme, fat cigar and ford capri
it was always ‘wrote for luck’, never ever ‘let it be’
that was manchester calling
[verse 4]
back in day, mancunian was neither fat nor fit
and city and united were both bordering on sh*t
and eating upmarket was canadian charcoal pit
and that was manchester calling
[verse 5]
it was emily pankhurst’s grit over shaun ryder’s t**th
never was it ‘shameless’, certainly not ‘cold feet’
it was bernard manning spitting bile on comic relief
that was manchester calling
[verse 6]
nowadays, the arena and, apparently, the bomb
and tiny worker bee gives folk the strength to carry on
from summerbee and whiteside to diving like a swan
that’s manchester calling
[verse 7]
now outside haçienda flats on tony wilson street
shuffling under skyscr*per at least a thousand feet
growth removed the wings of bee and, honey, that ain’t sweet
that’s manchester calling
[verse 8]
and that’s why folk love coventry, dundee, perth, and hull
it’s a zero lack of sights to see but a total lack of bull
and they don’t live in place defined by posh bird it wants to pull
that’s manchester calling
[verse 9]
and the largely redundant irwell, like thames and rhine before
looks up at sky, lets out a sigh, then looks back down to floor
and in irwellian irony, it’s been no use since ’84
that’s manchester calling
[verse 10]
industrial revolution, when workers counted cost
ancoats down to moss side, where ‘boddies’ used to waft
now the gangsters ride on tricycles and the hard men have gone soft
and that’s manchester calling
[verse 11]
half the size of london, slightly less than brum
half the population with head lodged up its bum
now property developers look down on northern scum
and that’s manchester calling
[verse 12]
as ian brown passes on his lowrider bike
they’re pulling down last building anyone actually liked
let’s throw another tower up with gary neville’s head on a spike
name it ‘manchester calling’
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