There's a kid who was born and was raised in the West
There's a kid from the East who never really fit in with the rest
Every week they would meet in the street with their friends
With the guns that they made and the caps that they stole they would fight to their death

This time we'll have victory
Last time ended in a defeat
Our town becomes a battleground

West End Riot
We'll be here next Saturday
With our guns and our heads held high
So listen up boys, you'd better not cry this time

See a bum on the street that you think you recognise
Young kid never looked so bad, when he was only 4ft high
Six o'clock runnin' home I don't wanna be late
Another Saturday of sun and war shared with our mates

Boys will be boys playing up and making lots of noise
Never used to talk about the future
Never thought that we'd have to care

There’s a man who was born in the West workin’ at a factory
There’s a man from the East who know runs the whole company
How they’ve grown on their own not like the kids they used to be
Saturdays of sun and war are just fond memories

This is a partly fictional/partly true story of kids who meet
each week and share the common interest of
playing war. As they grow up and end up in
different jobs, the mutual interest and bond once
shared is now distant. I find it fascinating how
people who are in higher or lower positions in working
society, who stick to their own kind,
may never know the friendships they have missed out on.