The hallowed tiles of medlock way,
For a drop, a pound he pays,
And pulls his cap to face away,
Towards the beams of yesterday,
And to the girl with streaks he’ll say,
There’s nowt round here these days
A river sullen by its source,
The floorboards treaded, with some force
Thespians schooled by life of course
The handsome roofer, his hands coarse
His eyes they bleed, exude remorse
A debt for which we’ll pay
A lantern strung across a road
A table heavy with its load
A glass half full, a ciggie rolled
A laugh, a light, a friendship owed
The Peveril of the Peak, an ode
The pub that chose to stay.