Pipe clay to whiten up the stairs
The outside toilet cleaned
Brasso’d taps and Wally Dug pairs,
Polished well and preened
Black leaded grate, the kettle glows
Pots gleaming in the kitchen
Women gathering in the close,
Some of them are bitchin’
Someone didn’t do their turn,
One flight of stairs looks grimy
Heaven help that Betty Burn,
If looks could kill, cor blimey!
Newspapers laid on the kitchen floor,
To keep the surface clean
Vinegar to heal my sore,
And give my hair a sheen
The back court was our playground,
Where we would open up wee shops
Will all the articles we found
In the middens, full of props
On the wide an open streets we played,
No fast cars to knock us down,
Just the clip clopping noise the cuddy made
As it trotted its way through town.
Listen to the poem
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