A Glasgow Story
Encouraged by escalating disposable incomes,
the rich rushed West to Gilmore Hill and Kelvingrove
looking for a more fantoosh kind of culture.
Escaping from the reek of poverty and filth,
they left behind the Trongate and Cathedral,
in the hope of making something of themselves.
Today Glaswegians breathe fresher air,
where the notion of class has been abolished
by the possibility of appearing to have it all.
The modern way for accredited congregations,
now that bankers do God’s work,
is the performance of ritual worship
at Silverburn, Braehead and Princes Square.
Communing in multi-culinary food halls,
hemmed in by designer-labelled bags,
we drink our fair trade coffee and forget,
we're not all Thatcher's bastards,
we're all Jock Tamson’s bairns.
from North Light, The Anthology of Clydebuilt 3 (July 2012)
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