There’s a notable bronze statue on the flats in Wigan Park,

There’s an obvious plain aftermath of harm; 

And an aggravated gardener tends the vandals’ senseless lark, 

While Sir Francis Powel regards it with alarm.

 

All the vandals in the park tend to surface after dark,

When it’s difficult to spot their yellow streak:

With grand stupor they engage in a brainless sabotage,

And the dawning of each day is sad and bleak.

 

The modern day brigade won’t remember bygone age,

When green space was respected and adored;

And entrepreneurial wealth helped to furnish crucial health,

For the privileged and for those who couldn’t afford.

 

In old Victorian times there were fewer futile crimes,

And the free-for-all green heavens were revered:

All could take great pleasure in a safe and pleasant treasure;

A pristine park with nothing to be feared.

 

In eighteen-seventy-eight, Wigan Park’s ornate main gate,

Finally opened to receive the gracious masses;

And everyone delighted in the floral splendour sighted,

Pure gratis irrespective of the classes.

 

For many, many years, long before the yobs brought tears,

And walking on the grass was judged a crime;

Every visitor respected that no plant was left neglected,

And Wigan Park’s verdure was quite sublime.

 

It was always recognised that green space was highly prized,

And the splendour contributed to well-being:

Exotic plant collections were stimulating injections,

For body and mind the park was quite agreeing.

 

For many years it lasted but no one had forecasted,

That those glorious floral years would fade away;

But forlornly social drift was to detrimentally shift,

And the Technicolor scenery turned to grey.

 

The nineteen-eighties cuts tore right into green space guts,

And the importance of green living was disregarded:

With funds severely reduced and low maintenance introduced,

The park’s grandeur was rapidly discarded.

 

With carpet bedding banished, most annual beds soon vanished,

And the dignity of the park became fragmented:

The new grounds maintenance drills reduced the need for skills;

Green mutiny that true gardeners all resented.

 

Along this injurious course, huge reductions in workforce,

Allowed imbeciles their first malicious hold:

And as they infiltrated, the park became ill-fated;

A blight on every rose and marigold.

 

Although it seems absurd, the ownership transferred,

To the buffoons who revelled in devastation;

And as the gardeners toiled, their efforts were soon spoiled,

By clowns who cruelly inflicted green damnation.

 

Even later determination and parks regeneration,

Failed to stop the rot that settled in:

Six million pounds was spent and it hardly made a dent,

In the well established hooligans’ thick skin.

 

Their nightly escapade and their dignity long mislaid,

Ensured that the problem escalated;

And as they laughed and joked, on drink and weed and coke,

They slayed the plants with pointless vicious hatred.

 

The saboteurs have prevailed, while all solutions have failed,

To liberate Wigan’s once so pleasant green:

Even daytime misbehaviour, has added to the failure,

To restore the space to prior self esteem.

 

As balls are kicked through beds, decapitating flower heads,

the children polish the old man’s shoe for luck;

And I too polish the shoe, to make my wish come true,

And end the vicious sovereignty of the schmuck.

 

There’s a notable bronze statue on the flats in Wigan Park,

There’s an obvious plain aftermath of harm; 

And an aggravated gardener tends the vandals’ senseless lark, 

While Sir Francis Powel regards it with alarm.