The fact that these thoughts have entered my mind demonstrate
that I am a hypocrite sipping on cloudy lemonade,
but if I've learned anything from my Mum it's definitely
that history should be preserved, so I'll write down some words
about a terraced house situated in between
three of the rowdiest pubs that you have ever seen.
Dee Road and Custom House School's just around the corner too,
and can't forget Garage Bob's.
Can he fix it? Probably not.
Bottles of bobba tea probably not as hot as the coffee pot.
I've got to jot the rest of this dot-to-dot down.
Go outside to play, the sun starts to sorch.
Look over the wall, I see Uncle George.
He watches on happily as me and John shoot baskets
averaging one out of three, actually it's more like one out of four.
We never count the score, unlike Kings of the Castle,
4-3 thanks to Stan Collymore.

I hear a shout coming from around the side of the house
"Sam, come give us a hand and get the shovel out".
It's Dad, he's standing next to the bunker that old and rusty
but holds enough coal to see us through the winter months comfortably.
I dig the shovel underneath a lump of coal,
get some soot on my dungarees from the bunker hole.
We start the fire together, can't wait to send Santa's letter.
I never tell you but, Dad I'm forever grateful
for every twelve hour shift that you ever have worked, plus overtime.
Not forgetting how selfless you acted, I hope that you don't mind
if I mention the time that your health was in question.
Never had us guessing; I respect how you just told us how it was.
I learned a lesson that evening that only a real man
can put his family ahead of any results from a scan,
but before I get the chance to say thanks, he's off doing odd jobs.
TOB needs a tyre fitting, so he's gone down Garage Bob's.

That night, me and Beth, we went up every steep step
but had to stop on the landing when we heard the front door banging.
Standing in limbo is something I've always took for granted.
Perhaps I'd act a little different if I'd met my Grandad.
Anyway...Mum answers the door.
It's Garage Bob, you know, I mentioned him before.
His drunken eyes look up at us, stood on the landing.
He shouts up "night girls!"...hysterics laughing.
he must have just come up from down the road, The Labour Club.
Where people go for dominos and karaoke fun.
Where people chance their luck on the bandits, they can't resist.
Where I go for a blackcurrant and a bag of crisps.
Where a crowd of us gather every Saturday after the final whistle has blown and the club is packed to the rafters.
As exciting as this this, my head has conjured up a list
of things I need to do to get out, and go Manhattan quick.

I lived a full life.
I lived a full life with you
at Number 7 Breeze Hill
but I was just dreaming.

Suddenly I'm hunched over the bar and my back is aching.
I've lost my sense of smell and my hands are shaking.
The bar lady asks "want the usual, dear?"
I say "Blackcurrant", she laughs and pours a point of beer.
Smoking rollies alone, out in the cold,
hobble inside and slide open a box of dominos.
The lonely bloke on the karaoke sings golden oldie from the year 2019,
my brain is spinning slowly.
I stumble over to the bandit, having trouble standing.
Use the machine as leverage as I take a sip from my alcoholic beverage.
I see a holographic message on the TV screen -
'Win a trip to Manhattan and fulfil all of your dreams!".
I see myself as a child crawl through my frail legs,
but instead of bashing the flashing buttons, he says
"come on, let's go back home".
Breeze Hill, heaven sent.
Don't ask where number seven went.

I lived a full life.
I lived a full life with you
at Number 7 Breeze Hill
but I was just dreaming.