I cannot write a Dylan ditty,
Although my city’s pretty shitty.
Grey, concrete, mud banks too,
Come to Newport ! There’s nothing for you.
Yet I’m still here after all these years,
And it’s not for lack of promise, or fears of tears or solace.
But that memory of what was, and what could be again,
When the shops on the High Street numbered more than ten.
Two bus stations ago,
Before the pub chains and blow.
When the clubs at one did end,
Drinking Cuban Fire with a friend.
When shops were rammed
And every public house crammed.
Three buses an hour (okay, none to the Gower).
Sign says for OAPS to show their asses,
Someone scratched out the P, it used to read passes.
Newport Nippers are all now redundant,
Car park stinks, urine’s pungent.
Abandoned shops, John Frost square too.
It’s still got benches but sit there, would you?
Yes it’s a dirty old town, no wait it’s a city.
Right, look at the centre, such a waste, such a pity.
But I must still love it, whey else the ditty?
Oh yes, I love Newport, my unpretty city.