Newport, they call it; we calls it ‘ome

This is Newport
where we’re proud to live.
Nothing to hide,
a bit less to give.
These hanging streets,
which Chartists’ walked
are where kids learn to fight
way before they can talk.
All these places
we loves to roam
The ‘port en’t much,
but we calls it ‘ome.

I could show you Caerleon’s bright spots
where blads drive fast for fun;
or Pill’s dark hiding places
where the ‘babylon’ never come.
Show you schools from Hartridge to Dyffryn
that stood and watched kids grow,
walk you through the streets of Ringland
that taught them all they know…
Coz this is Newport, where we’re proud to live…

Atop Twmbarlam’s nipple,
dreaming, looking down.
one hundred and fifty thousand dreamers
struggle to help our town.
Betrayed by the planners,
and entrepreneurial flops
and lazy-minded councillors who
emptied the streets of shops.
But it’s still our town where we’re proud to live…

Who said pride and history
count for bugger all?
I reckon John Frost-like heroics
can arrest this headlong fall
into the dust.
Coz there is a sense of inner strength,
a steel which forged its men.
Yes, the guts that vanquished All Blacks
is stirring in the ‘Port again.

When Jonny’s TJ’s lit a fuse
‘cool Cymru’ rocked our town,
Dub War, Darling Buds, Feeder, the ‘Dolls,
Strummer and Cobain hung around.
A place of hard, working people
and bangin’ weekends in town –
for this is a place with edge and bite
not one that just lays down.

The ‘port still has its icons

‘Bomber’ Pearce, and Benji’s Skindred
Big Mac’s soul; the County, the Dragons,
and a brand new market where the world can be fed!

Kenneth Baker and Paul Flynn;
as heroes, not everyone’s choice
but Newport carved these people,
as well as Harry Dibble
and gave Frankie Lodge his voice.

Once a town, now promoted to ‘city’,
like big brother ‘Diff down the road.
But up feels like down when we drive out to Spytty
while the town centre corrodes.
But held together it would seem
by expectant girls with pregnant dreams
who can drink the night and day away,
dance from Le Pub to the Potter’s and Meze.
Who drag their clarts through ugly and broke
into Newport men – half-tidy blokes.

The people of the ‘port
are the lifeblood that it needs,
but they’ll drain away without a tourniquet
around the gash the roads out of town leave.
There’s pubs cold and empty,
town’s wheezin’ drawing breath;
p’rhaps walkin with the friars
is the first step to resurrect…

our Newport, where I’m proud to live…
with nothing to hide and a bit less to give.
For those whose lenses are uncorrupted
and are ‘Port-people, life-long and uninterrupted,
will see that despite the chaos that has erupted
in recent times
there are many optimistic souls whose minds
and hearts are Newport dipped and yet remains.
So we have our shiny mall,
with toothy smiles and muzacked walls.
So we have a riverbank, where concrete grows
and to be frank, who knows if they’ll be lived
and loved like ‘Pill’ was and is?
Can our ‘new’ port stir the blood
of those who live and love in Bettws?
Will sharing a pint in the brand new Blaina
Wharf hold more laughs or in any way be finer
than our ancient Murrenger?
Yes, McCann can fill the ‘Blowa’s shoes
and Le Pub will fill us with rock and blues.
while new memories are forged.

For these are the streets
where history walks
and where kids learned to fight,
before they could talk.
All these places
we loves to roam,
the ‘port en’t much,
but we calls it ‘ome.