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.
Tony Quarrington 