The Westgate Run (Re-Run).

 

“Get the round in John!”

 

Upon the Merrie Cities oldest street

when twilight creeps across the Yorkshire sky,

traditionally friends and strangers meet

and let the velvet darkness pass them by.

In pictures from a dim and distant past,

as gaslight spilled from heavy shadowed doors,

to neon tinted bars of Friday last

the sound of liquid laughter gently pours.

 

This right of passage passed from old to young

Across the years, zig-zagging ‘cross the street

This rousing song will be forever sung

Wherever honest folk of Wakefield meet.

It’s not the winning – but the taking part

That drives us up that hill on Saturday.

With friends both old and new - our hangovers

A Sabbath morning willing price to pay.

 

Perhaps this pilgrim’s way holds no surprise

to those who visit here upon a chance -

but living all my life beneath these skies

I hear the music, soft beneath the dance.

A century or more of stumbling feet

have traced this path from St. Micks to the Rock.

Good spirits open wide the doors to greet

the revellers of Wakefield when they knock.

 

At seven, sharp, we meet in the Redoubt,

its crooked rooms are full of chiming talk.

then on to face our Waterloo and stout

as black as coal, to help us on our walk.

The White Hart next and sawdust ghosts afoot,

stiff, wooden chairs that creak like age old men.

A chimney spills authentic, ancient soot

that trails away in footsteps way back when.

 

The Wagon and Horses tempts us with its lights

The Smiths Arms draws us to a blazing fire

that warms us from the hearth on winter nights

until we leave to climb towards the spire,

The Swan With Two Necks, changed yet one more time,

its stained glass windows gazing at the mill

forever etched against a sky in grime -

though long gone you can see its outline still.

 

Henry Boons is next with straw thatched bar

where trendy student ambience abounds.

The walls are permeated with a tar

of funky, grungy, rocky, poppy sounds.

Under the railway bridge and cross the road,

the red bricked Elephant & Castle looms,

a place where time has permanently slowed

and memories are cobwebbed in the rooms.

 

The Black Horse next, our gallant race is run.

Weary of body, drunk and slurred of speech.

The White Horse, Black Swan, Tavern and Black Rock

So close to touch yet so far out of reach.

The call is ‘This far and no further, boys!’

We raced the beer – once more the beer has won

No proud winners only gallant losers

Reach the finish line on the Westgate Run

 

Perhaps this pilgrim’s way holds no surprise

to those who visit here upon a chance -

but living all my life beneath these skies

I hear the music, soft beneath the dance.

A century or more of stumbling feet

have traced this path from St. Micks to the Rock.

Good spirits open wide the doors to greet

the revellers of Wakefield when they knock.

The revellers of Wakefield when they knock.

The revellers of Wakefield when they knock.

 

“Time Ladies and Gentlemen please!”