after Jamie McKendrick

Bradford the milly, the chilly, the everywhere hilly, 
the Yorkshire, the canny, the Rajasthani,
The Polish, the Irish, the Romany, 
the homeless, the homesick, the Manningham native,
the dislocated and the keypad-gated.
Bradford the hyped, the skyped, the lifetime saved-for,
the quixotic, the Quaker, the fortune-maker.
The fresh start, the loan shark, the business start-up, 
the kohl-eyed, the streetwise, the Bollywood star-struck.
Bradford the Dissenter, the Luddite, the Chartist,
the in-your-face playwright, the bigger-splash artist.
The faith-schooled, grammar-schooled, scholarship-winning
part-time Philistine can’t be arsed innit.
Bradford the once proud, wool-endowed, bloodied
but unbowed, Gothic, Italianate, Art-Deco run down.
The grandiose scrubbed-up municipal pompous.
The mansion, the prefab, the tentacled campus.
The bought-to-let, muddy-becked, moor-bound 
and moribund. The vigilant vengeful, the honour-enslaved.
The Red Bull can on an Undercliffe grave.
The nest-studded trees in the central reservation, 
finch robin blackbird singing. Bradford the brave.

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