Gillingham

Where Medway's waters slow and deep,
Past ancient docks where sailors sleep,
Gillingham lies in Kentish grace,
A town that time cannot erase.

No glossy sprawl, no neon glare,
Just steady streets and honest air,
Where lorries hum a low, contented tune
Beneath the watchful afternoon moon.

Chatham's ghost walks where cranes once stood,
The river whispers tales of wood
And tar and rope, of battles won,
Of work well done, of setting sun.

The high street hums with friendly chat,
The butcher's shop, the chemist's flat,
A pint's poured warm in local ale,
The favourite tipple without fail.

Kentish apples crisp and tart,
Fill baskets at the market's start,
While petrol smell and baking bread
Mingle where the town is led.

Not loud, not flash, but true and sound,
Where solid virtues are found,
Gillingham, you hold your place
With quiet strength and honest face.
So here's to you, Medway's proud town—
My vote's for you, without a frown.