Molly from Manchester (Explicit)

One of the few benefits of lockdown has been having time to listen to the entire Beatles back catalogue. After digesting it all, I came up with this rather melancholy tune. If you have a spare 4 minutes and 9 seconds, why not take a listen!


Molly from Manchester felt quite possessed to go down to the pub for a drink,
she asked the barman can you make me something that’ll make it much harder to think.
And he says “drink this, down that, and your troubles will all flow away.”
“They’ll all return when the sun starts to rise, you can drink all you want but it won’t heal what’s inside.”
That’s what love is for.

Harry from Hartlepool’s just lost his job and he’s feeling quite down on his luck,
He calls up a lady who some might call shady, and spends fifty quid on a f**k.
And it goes in out, shake it all about, Harry pumps all his problems away.
He’s only searching for someone who deserted him, someone with whom he could rest his weary bones.
That’s what love is for.

Love, that silly thing, it can make or break you in an instant.
Love, that simple little thing, you can spend your whole life looking for it when it’s right in front of you.

Larry from Lancaster stared in the mirror and saw a stranger stare back,
He longed for the road trip he’d taken last summer with Molly and the kids in the back.
And he said “Oh what I’d give to go back to the times before sleeping around and the lies!”
“I’d like to improve and to try to remove all the bad blood between us and try to be a dad.”
That’s what love is for.

Rachel from Ramsbottom sat at her desk and she typed the words into the screen.
The more emails she wrote the closer to promotion and living the corporate dream.
She said that “Harry’s a bum I was done with the slum of a life that we’d built for ourselves.”
“I’m better without him, I’m tired of vouching for someone in who I do not believe in.”
Oh, that’s not what love is for.

Love, that silly thing, it can make or break you in an instant.
Love, that simple little thing, you can spend your whole life looking for it when it’s right in front of you.
That’s what love is for.

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Why Would the French Kiss Like This?

Spirits are high for the very first time,
then suddenly shot down the gullet.
Hosting parents must look away,
unwilling to see their compliance
in the teenage cesspool of tongues,
who, uncaring, do not know one from another.
Their only desire to rise, circle, fall,
dart left, swipe right, then finally remember to breathe.

The cherub wonders why the French would kiss like this?
Watching the cacophony of canoodling,
bothered and bewildered by the room of writhing mouths
before they break away, mumbling good nights and
feigning sobered innocence in the car journey home.

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The Goldfish

The goldfish sways through the cool, mottled pool,
contented and pleased by his lot.
He opens his gills and sings Oh! What a fool
would give up this home that I’ve got.

When down swoops a heron with unending grace,
who settles to stand on the bank.
She wonders how cold is the water I face;
hours passed since the last time she’d drank.

Golden boy ogles her powerful wings,
her soft silken feathers and ruff.
He flicks up his tail to make rippling rings,
forgetting his pond was enough.

The majestic creature, she sips from the surface,
then looks to the sky to take flight.
She fails to see the philandering fish,
beats both wings and departs in the night.

Bubbles, he leaps and flies out of the pool
discontent with his water-based life,
then falls right back in and flops down like a fool
before swimming straight back to his wife.

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An Education (In Manchester)

It dawned on me the other day that September 2019 marks the start of mine and many of my closest friends’ fifth year in Manchester. Now feeling sentimental about how special Manchester is, I decided to share this little song I wrote about it when finishing off the old undergraduate degree.

I have spent three years falling in love,
with a city I have learned to call my home,
and even though there’s too many roadworks,
it’s a city that has crept under my bones.

I have spent three years studying something,
though I’m still not sure what I have learned,
and I’ve met some people that I’ll know for all my life,
and none of us will pay off our student loans.

We may not know what the future holds,
but it’ll damn sure be exciting.
We may not know how our lives will unfold,
but hopes and dreams will always seem inviting.

I have spent three years to get a number,
a Damian Hurst, a Desmond Tutu or a third,
and I still don’t know who I am,
or who I’m meant to be.

But I’ve found somewhere I feel I belong,
and I even went and wrote this f***ing song about it,
and I apologise for going on so long,
and I haven’t got a last line yet.

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A Poem Called Peanuts

I’m paid peanuts.
Peanuts is what I’m paid.

People pooh-pooh my payment in peanuts.
It’s simply preposterous, the people purvey.
Better than payment in pennies, I say.

Politicians won’t propose a petty peanut tax,
And if they do, I’ll eat the lot;
Peanuts are one of my favourite snacks.

I’ve got a peanuts pension,
And peanut premium bonds as well.
Investing peanuts in Walnut Street,
My peanut portfolio expands and swells.

I implore you ask your place of work:
Can I be paid in peanuts too?
They might just gawp and say that’s nuts!
But I promise that they won’t argue…

 – Max Thomas (2019)

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