7 Bridges to Burn

There's a young lad down the way
A pugilist, with tight fists like that meme of Arthur
Lives on the type of street you wouldn't clock on your Strava
He's two parts child
Three parts charva
The type of Billy Elliot to wear a ballet-clava

He skives with his lass
They skip class to get off their lips
Blast off their brains on the sawn-off shot glass
The pupils that dilate
Are the students that die early
That found substance in abuse

He got a ring for her finger
A bracelet for his ankle and
Chains for leaving the house
Half his life in the nick
And then I'll see him at a wake
And he's nicking pickled onions off my paper plate
And he says: Son
Don't do what I've done

And he's back behind bars before the setting of them [?]
He might never learn
But you know what?
Us lot, we've got seven bridges to burn
So we'll be that friendly tone on the phone
And we'll give the wheel another turn
With round heads
To reavers
Ship workers
Steam trains
Steel as Shearer

Pit ponies turned
Thatcher
The Ashley era
It's cheap as muck but I couldn't hold it dearer
Something between the cream and the drips and drabs
Picket line scabs and
Craster crabs
Come on the Mags
Howay the Lads
There's nowhere in Sunderland sells duty-free tabs

Sides picked like jumpers from goal-posts
We hail from the wall
Call hailstones and gale force T-shirt weather
We dress ourselves in pleasure

Magpies
One for sorrow
Two, for joy
Fifty-two thousand make the ground shake
Make no mistake
Magpies
Magpies