Fishy Things

Ten wee men, some of them women,
with nothing better to do
turned the trawlers away from Ayr,
said - we don't want fishermen there,
the way they drink, the way they swear,
lowering the tone in Wellington Square,
with holes in their elbows too.
It's time they danced to a different tune.
Let them operate out of Troon.

Ten wee men, some of them women,
with nothing better to do
said - it's time to turn the page.
Let's have a walkway, they're all the rage,
a heritage trail from a bygone age,
a covered piazza and outdoor stage,
and maybe a sculpture or two.
We'll bring the tourists flooding in -
why, thank you, I'd love another gin.

Ten wee men, some of them women,
with nothing better to do
said - we'll give the harbour pubs
witty names like Wormwood Scrubs,
relaunch them all as chic nightclubs
with cocktail bars and hefty subs.
The town could use a few.
So they tore the old fish market down
and hired a sculptor from out of town.

Ten wee men, some of them women,
with nothing better to do
saw but did not understand
when vandals came to the promised land,
bleaked the paradise they'd planned,
ripped the sculpture from off its stand
and sprayed it red and blue,
failing, it seems, to appreciate
the Soul Of The Fisher in bent steel plate.

postscript -

The trawlermen didn't seem to care.
Troon was more welcoming than Ayr
and wasn't short for a piece of the action
with a fishing fleet as the main attraction.

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