I (think) I Remember Gorton
by Bob Moore ©2019
I used to live in Gorton
a cosy little nook
in the shade of the Pennine Hills
by Blackie’s babbling brook
Jackson’s clay pit was where we made
the bricks to build our home
it was a playground for our children too
so they would not need to roam
The people were all friendly
the children were all polite
but we kept that to ourselves
didn’t need the kind who fight
We spread the word that we were tough
so don’t you come around
we don’t need bother causers
bringing trouble to our town
I left there many years ago
and I hear the stories now
of how Gorton is out of control
and I wonder if, somehow,
Are these still the same old stories
we used to tell, to keep people away
or is it true, that after all these years
my Old Gorton has gone that way
Categories:
gorton, home,
Form: Rhyme
Scout Memories
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
I’ve marched behind the pipes and drums, when I was just a boy
down Hyde Road and Gorton Lane, filled with pride and joy
the bagpipes loudly playing, with a stirring marching sound
and the banners proudly streaming, as we marched around our town
It was the Whit Week marches, we had them every year
crowds would line the pavement, and give a rousing cheer
as we marched by, not quite in step, but doing best we could
and mam would yell out “come on Rob” and the feeling would be good
And then there were the Church Parades, on early Sunday morning
uniform all clean and ironed, don’t fall asleep the warning
carry the flag, down the aisle, a friend on either side
and leave it at the altar, with care, and youthful pride
The main things I remember, about that magic day
I know the flag was heavy, and the walk was a long way
then you had to stand there, hymns were sung, and bells would peal
then home to cheese and bacon, our Sunday morning meal.
Categories:
gorton, march, patriotic,
Form: Rhyme
Life in Oz
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015
Over 50 years I’ve been out here
don’t like the heat, and snakes I fear
red back spiders, and the funnel web
if they bite you, you could be dead
Don’t like vegemite on my toast
get in the sun, and I would roast
down at the beach is not for me
don’t know what I’d do if a shark I’d see
like air conditioning, and a cup of tea
if it hot outside, inside I’ll be
the mozzies they still bite me bad
guess in my heart, I’m a Gorton Lad.
Categories:
gorton, humor, identity,
Form: Rhyme
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015
Santa came to Gorton, in the middle of the night
The Moore kids were all sleeping, their eyes were closed real tight
Climbing down the chimney, he’d leave the toys with care,
then drink the milk, and eat the cake the children had left there
A wooden train that dad had made, on the fret saw in the shed
A ragged doll that mam had sown, before she went to bed
an apple or an orange, would be in the stocking too
and little books and puzzles, lots of stuff to do
We never knew who’d wake up first and yell “he’s been, he’s been”
and sort through all the presents, the best we’d ever seen
then we’d fall asleep again, excited, and full of joy
even if the best we’d got, was a little wooden toy
That’s Christmas as I remember it, when I was just a lad
in Gorton with my sisters, my mother and my dad
We never thought we had missed out, on toys or love or food
as far as we kids were concerned, we always had it good
Mam and dad are gone now, and it doesn’t seem the same
maybe it’s that we’ve grown old, a little bent and lame
or perhaps it’s too commercial, a thing we didn’t know
But Christmas is still Christmas, so let the love just flow.
Categories:
gorton, childhood,
Form: Rhyme