OLD TINSLEY POTS

(by Rebecca "bEx" Neale)

There was something a-missing this morning
As by the canal I walked round;
The breeze it were colder, blowing over my shoulder,
For the Old Tinsley Pots had come down.

	Come down, come down
	For the Old Tinsley Pots had come down.

For seventy years they'd been up there
Standing two-fifty foot high.
An aesthetic alarm but not doing no harm
Between the horizon and sky.

	And sky, and sky
	Between the horizon and sky.

They opened up Meadowhall car park
And the motorway closed on that day,
And thousands joined in as the count did begin,
And the Pots they awaited their fate.

	Their fate, their fate
	And the Pots they awaited their fate.

The crowd held their breath, it were silent --
Before one loud crack and a fall.
Then a sad distant rumble as the Pots took their tumble,
But a big concrete finger stood tall.

	Stood tall, stood tall
	But a big concrete finger stood tall.

T'was the north tower standing for Northern.
Take that! to your power plant boys.
But one more ignition to complete demolition,
And the finger come down with no noise.

	No noise, no noise
	And the finger come down with no noise.

As the dust settled over the viaduct
The crowd they all cheered, then stopped.
They'd been there so long, now this skyline had gone,
And we thought of the mem'ries we'd got.

	We'd got, we'd got
	And we thought of the mem'ries we'd got.

We called them the Gates to South Yorkshire.
No sea front, no big fancy dome.
Now we've cancelled our trips on planes and on ships,
For fear that we'll never get home

	Get home, get home
	For fear that we'll never get home.

	Come down, come down,
	The Old Tinsley Pots have come down.

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