Poetry Map of Scotland: poem no. 378

Maggie McIver’s Dream

We are pure dead brilliant,
East End fandabidosi style
with neon teeth stretching above
the Gallowgate.
You see us before you’ve even arrived
with our star struck mary doll smile.
And once you’ve ventured inside,
it’s full steam ahead to a time gone by.
Our black and red linoleum stair
shout slogans, but the sinners are unaware
as the 1960’s flamingo pink loos have seen
their fair share of stylish shoes and trendy hairdos.
Once inside the womb venue, where
we’ve nurtured lust and romance, given birth
to love, stars and musical chance.
Vaulted diamond ceiling, sparkling world,
sprung dance floor stickier than the air
thick with the stench of crisps, Irn Bru and cheap beer.
Iconic, the original Glasgow sin,
where every real star wants to be in.
No old gallus grand dame, we are Queen.
Remember everyone knows our name,
written in neon above the door
 Barrowland,
we have been so much more
than a just ballroom since 1934.
We are Maggie McIver’s Dream. 

Catherine Conoboy-Reid

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