Tucked away, On the Scarborough coast, Lies a village. The most wonderful village in the world.
With salt-sea air, And scampi and chips, And fishing boats, Resting a-shore.
It is home to a forgotten railway, Left behind by modernity, and all who care, Are dying, dwindling, vanishing, Gone.
But once a year, My father takes me, To see the most magnificent festival! And once a year, The world turns its eye, On this tiny inlet town.
Where the villagers light up their homes, And fill their kitchens with strangers, And music, and laughter, and colour. It is as if - They can repair the world.
And sew up the torn canvas, Refresh the shine and strength, The vigour and breath, Of inspiration itself.
But like all great paintings, You must cover it up, Hide it away, To preserve it for your children, And those after them.