Built on dogshit pavements
Watch the lackeys swoon
A cynical arrangement 
Every workday afternoon
Where the fecal germs of Mister Fooks
Are rendered obsolete
The legal beak is “Turgid Spoor”
In the case of Brighton Street

In the cheap seats where corruption breeds
Somebody is out of cheques
Sheeple are a luxury Wirral breeds
Where voters welcome death
Nepotism is their power
Pigs’ trotter their meat
Spend a penny, grab a crate of cheap beers
On the edge of Brighton Street

Where the dignity isn’t
That’s where it is
Fake your position
Vacancies exist
In an X-certificate exercise
Ex-Freemasons excrete
Frank Field smiles and a kitten dies
In a box on Brighton Street

From the whoring-houses and the bedsits
Full of councillors / disease
Somebody gets it
Where the missing documents freeze
Using private Twitter accounts
You can’t see their tweets
Brown envelopes shut, then open up
Right down on Brighton Street

Policies collide, ideas clash
Disaster-movie stuff
For a man with a Red [stroke] Blue moustache
One rosette’s not enough
There’s a gagging clause – so drivel speaks
There’s a PR man in tow
Meanwhile on Brighton Street
Silence is the code

Hot beneath the collar
A CQC inspector calls
Where the perishing stink of squalor
Impregnates the walls
The kids have all got rickets
They spit through broken teeth
The name of the game is containment
*Inadequate* Brighton Street

The Lipster – he’s our hired Trot
Drives a souped-up car
Yellow socks and a private yacht
Nuthin la-dee-dah
OAP, mother-to-be
Feel the guy mistreat
As poverty spreads
And Third World scenes
Are the norm on Brighton Street

The kingdom of the bald
The combover is king
Slaphead problems are redefined
The barbers do not ring
A wallet bursts like a blister
The only form of heat
Where a former mayor sells his sister
Down the river on Brighton Street

The boys are on a covert tape
A girl immolates herself
Their common problem is
Frank Field’s not someone else
Clean cash blows in
Soiled notes flow out
You can’t keep it neat
It’s a nicely-furnished dustbin
The Clown Hall, Brighton Street

Stella, Pip’s ageing daughter
Betrays no sign of life
But the stench of Wirral Waters
And the ghost of Peel’s delight
Through brainstorming sessions
Feckin artists’ impressions
We say  “Retreat!”
But Pip keeps flogging his tarnished plans
Down the middle of Brighton Street

Senior bods turn to poison 
Quick as lager turns to piss
Auditors are physically sick
Every time they tick
It’s a cardiologist’s nightmare
No trace of any heartbeat
On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy
Beastly Brighton Street

Souls dead as vicious fish
Don’t stick round for laughs
If I could have just one wish
I would be a Chief of Staff
On a permanent six figure salary
Come fudge or fall asleep
When The Bible gets molested
Around the back of Brighton Street

Inspired by “Beasley Street”, John Cooper Clarke