By Richard Mather
A fat moon hangs suspended over Piccadilly and the double-decker buses come and go, bound for Bolton, Trafford, Wigan. The stars are out tonight over Salford and a shadowy cat traverses the alleys, green eyes rubbing the dustbins. A fat moon hangs suspended over Prestwich and a ethereal fox examines the remains of somebody’s discarded takeaway. The stars are out tonight over Bury and a gaggle of girls head for the tram that will propel them back to Piccadilly where a full fat moon hangs suspended like a huge bauble.
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