"This story is from a sequence of pieces about growing up in Prestwich just outside, what was at the time, the largest asylum in Europe where casual madness was the everyday"
It was a grey day
In a small town
It was a mean life
For a lowdown
It was a bad time
For breaking the news
It was the wrong place
For finding the blues
Upon the wet streets
He struggled in vain
On his sad face
Was written the pain
He put the needle
Into his arm
He felt the blood flow
Making him calm
It was a false dawn
In a small town
There was no life
There was no sound
He went quiet away
He left no clues
Where he'd gone
Except an echo of Prestwich Blues
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