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Tommy Steele And Parkgate

Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see
Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed-
down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used
to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one
day and didn’t come back; they can dredge, no point
though, there aren’t any shrimps left in the sea. I saw
this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar,
looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of
Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind,
who is Tommy Steele, didn’t he used to be a singer?

Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people
outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender
of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for
two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had
destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell
off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust.
There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place,
but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar
lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate
in a mist of erratic memories; so who is Tommy Steele?

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