I’m going up the ’Pool from down the smoke below   to taste me mum’s jam Sarnis and see our Aunty Flo   The candy floss salesman watches ladies in the sand   down for freaky weekends in the hope that they’ll be meeting   Mr. Universe.                The iron tower smiles down upon the silver sea   and along the golden mile they’ll be swigging mugs of tea.   The politicians there who’ve come to take the air   while posing for the daily press will look around and blame the mess   on Edward Pier.             There’ll be buckets spades and bingo cockles muscels rainy days   seaweed and sand-castles icy waves.     Deck-chairs rubber dinghies old vests braces dangling down   a sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.   We’re going up the ’Pool from down the Smoke below   to taste me mum’s jam Sarnis and see our Aunty Flo   The candy floss salesman watches ladies in the sand   down for freaky weekends in the hope that they’ll be meeting   Mr. Universe.   Oh Blackpool oh Blackpool.