i turned jacketer cos ov the flash mob’s
lewd actions, fawney-fammed
fancy-women wiv the brads,
wearin’ worked caps, drinkin’ pots
ov porter, smokin’ weed in yards ov clay;
nasty pebbles actin’
like coves, leadin’ away young
morts by ill-advice, stealin’
inter yer ‘ammock n fillin’ yer ears
wiv smut, placin’ one ‘and
in yer bosom, the other
under yer shift to nail yer.
Turn whore or lie under the sod starved dead?
What to do, poor Judy?
Get the bunt by buttock n
twang or stick ‘er through the ‘eart
wiv snipes? Us unfortunates what is de-
cent, neiver worn the iron
collar nor bin tickled pink
by the backscratcher’s tails, yis,
previous we may’ve bin a blowen
to get a gen’leman
to bug over the rag or
‘is silk cly, jes to get by
n not ‘ave a shaved ‘ead, buy a roll ov
red riband, tea – baccy
cost eight pence a fig! We ain’t
incorrigible. We wants
the chance to live off the stores, be free to
amend, not be peached n
branded wiv a large yellow
C on jackets, sleeves n shifts.
Give us summat more n steamin’ over
the wash tub n smokin’
bugs out the beddin’, makin’
sun bonnets n canvas clouts.
Settlers in Hobarton crave legal wives
or servants to hang it
on wiv. They give us fact’ry
lasses a strong gun – like sheep.
They’d knock the rivet out ov our irons.
Our turnkey turns up trumps,
though, cos she’s allowed out n
trafficks for meat n sugar.
My littl’un, Rosie, was took wiv catarrh.
Wards ‘ere is stinkin’ damp,
like down the ‘ulks. Died she did.
The visitation ov God.
Michael Small February 25-March 2, 2004
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