Tony Quarrington

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?

I stumbled and I fell into a dozen large potholes
I slipped and I slid on a hillock of dog poo

I tripped and I got cut on steps to the harbour
I’ve been by the seashore where waves were a-lashin’

I’ve been stood by a tower whose paint was a-peelin’

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?

I saw piles of old clothes in empty shop doorways

I saw neglected buildings with sharp, shattered windows

I saw roadworks and barriers on every street corner

I saw half-eaten hamburgers tossed in the gutter

I saw discarded needles in the narrow, dirty alley

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?

I heard the sound of the seagulls circling the chip shops

I heard the whistling of wind around beachfront apartments

I heard teenagers speak with scanty vocabulary

I heard adults speak with swear words a-plenty

I heard a helicopter hovering above a small park

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
And who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met visitors staring at signs near the station

I met lines of sad people queuing up for free food

I met rough sleepers drunk in a garden of flowers

I met men passing white packets to children

I met women who asked if I wanted company

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.