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Empty shells, glassy-eyed and cold
Their mannequins draped in clearance grief
Dust clings thick on forgotten glass
Chained storefronts whisper disbelief
To Let signs fade behind cracked panes
Pigeons nest where hope once spread
The echoes of traders lost in time
Now echo through the hollow tread
The high street's dead, we pass it by
Eyes locked in a glowing trance
No one looks up or wonders why
We drift through town's ghostly expanse
Fast fashion breathes through lifeless glass
Each rack a clone of last week's spin
A dozen cafés fill the gaps
Flat whites poured with vacant grin
The indie gems have all moved on
No shelves of oddness anywhere
We scroll past life in silent lines
Each high street gutted, bought, and bare
The high street's dead, we pass it by
Eyes locked in a glowing trance
No one looks up or wonders why
We drift through town's ghostly expanse
Remember Woolworths?
Pick 'n' mix and plastic dreams
Dixons, MVC
Blockbuster weekends and cathode beams
We paved our way to this dead parade
Every footstep part of the grave we made
The high street's dead, still we walk on
With five-pence bags and hollow plans
No glance exchanged, just aching ground
A nation sold for apps and brands
