The labourer's house, of brick and of flint,
with gardens to grow your own veg,
and stuck up the back, stood the shed and the stack,
of firewood down to the hedge.
Tools of all manner from gimlets to hammer,
and saws requiring two chaps,
were hung on the walls and from what I recall,
food stored quite neatly in sacks
The path was well worn not a sign of a lawn,
to the toilet behind the green door,
raised up to the shin so those could look in,
to see vacancy shown by the floor.
The lavatory door would creak even more
than the rest of the doors in the house
while the damp and the cold, or so I am told,
would keep out the rat and the mouse.
When morning has come and sleeping is done,
draw a heart on the ice on the glass.
With not much to eat, stare out at the sleet
and hope that the weather will pass.
As washing day comes, there's no rest for mum,
on the washboards she's scrubbing away.
Look up to the sky, there's no chance it will dry,
so inside it will stay for the day.
Although only five I'm just glad I'm alive
as always there's somebody worse.
To have or have not, is all that you've got,
to want is a modern day curse.
And talking of greed, the things that you need,
are the basic requirements I guess.
With clothing and food and a roof to include,
any more is a bonus no less.
After all that I wrote, but to add a footnote,
as I ponder the past on my seat,
the house once was cold, to someone was sold,
as a city man's country retreat.
© 2024 Bob Dobbs