The Ghost of Jim Allen by Laurie Atkinson

Stand above Elvet when the streets have contracted,
when the sequins have faded and the music grown dim,
when the bouncers are dozing, the kebabs have stopped spinning
and seek out the pipes of Jim Allen.

Look out on the Wear as it passes below you,
hark back to those eyes that looked out on the Styx
and beat on the bars, still their hollow resounding
keeps time to the pipes of Jim Allen.

Raise up an ear, in the distance a roaring,
as bodies beat on in beat up metal boxes,
listen out, on the track a chaise is approaching,
too late for the pipes of Jim Allen.

Drift on, with the river, for daylight is coming
and the streets that were empty will pulse flesh again
and the chattering breath will breathe warmth on old Elvet,
cold still are the lips of Jim Allen.