The sun still shines over Wigan Pier, occasionally,

They say it’s grim up north

But I say it’s grin up,

Chin up north first and foremost,

Our chatter and inflections,

are the cold air echoing round our skinny bones,

Theres a million shades of grey

In our skies,

Theres a million queues

Outside a million shops,

Selling pies

There’s a street corner accident of an accent,

Thick as gravy,

But the sun still shines over Wigan Pier, not always but occasionally