After two years away this town isn’t home anymore. Just a place to observe and care for like a distant relative; the love is there because it is expected, but there’s no real attachment. If Frome died I’d be at the funeral pretending to cry, sitting on a back-row seat, waiting for the free booze at the wake with crocodile tears spilling out as Heathy and the town crier bless the soul of this troubled parish.
Town centre’s decorated by Zimmer frames and smut ridden buildings reaching half as far as they should. This town longs for something more but it’s incapable of achieving it. I walk around looking for old faces or things that have changed since I was here. Funny how you expect the world to have stood still whilst you were away, shops have changed names but the same people still frequent these parts. Scum protruding has-beens. Today is market day and all of Frome is out enjoying the hustle and bustle of a traditional English festival. Wrong…In actual fact, a handful of people solemnly weave around the stalls with pale and lifeless faces, chewing over what is of greater necessity, a tobacco tin or a 9-pack of Bart Simpson socks. Save the money and buy a one way ticket to somewhere else you putrid fools.
I’ve walked across the town bridge a thousand times without noticing the little cove over to the right. The perfect spot for budding entrepreneurs to sit and call upon society to aid them with copper. Hats off to the town council for taking the time to ensure the bridge architect made ample room for tramps to perch, whistle and drain money from the market goers. I don’t smoke and have ten thousand Bart Simpson socks. Giving my money to the tramp was the best investment opportunity on offer and, by the looks of his bulging chimney-sweep hat, others felt the same.
One way tickets are hard for most in this dismal pit of melancholy. Twisted expressions radiate from each soulless creature walking these parts. The faces on these miserable hyenas scream with content and love for all around. In between their sordid laughter, if you listen with the right ears, comes the sickly commendation of the surrounding mediocrity. The dilapidated bridge is really a fine sentiment adjoining Frome’s bustling economic centre. Wicked and dejected market stalls are pillars of regional custom and glory, with their reptilian freak owners slithering as up-standing patrons of historic continuance. Elect me as the major and we can widen cheap street, smash down to wherever the water begins and drown the repulsive creatures once and for all.