Chargrilled, burnt out buildings spewing up their insides,Carcasses, stripped of all their meat, spilled guts, missing their sides,Contorted concrete confetti, showered in shards of glass,Roofs ripped away like cardboard by the power of the blast.
The streets all strewn in debris; the end of the world has come,Battered, tattered, shopping mall, society undone,Girders bent in agony, the bridge to Marks and Sparks,Is hanging from the rafters which are nearly blown in half.
Exploded and imploded, sirens pierce the city air,The streets are scorched and scolded; rescuers stand and stare,For as the smoke has cleared and the dangers gone away,A symbol of Manc stubbornness comes firmly into play.
Standing proud, still bold and loud, puffing out its chest,Is an unscathed red pillar box, Manc defiance at its best,Devastation on all sides, destroyed and torn apart,But like that bright red letter box they’d never take our heart.
The fabric of our safety lay unravelled in destruction,But rising from the ashes came Manchester’s reconstruction,And just like that little post box protected every letter,They’d do their job, rebuild our town and make Manc even better.