Poetry

Down and Out

  My Dad was born dirt poor and he was poor when he was dead. He lived in cardboard city in a corrugated shed. You say your life is tough but, hell, our lives were so much tougher. You draw your weekly benefit. We had to sit and suffer.   We hadn’t got the wit to steal nor yet the brass to beg, But Dad would dance the Highland Fling and shake his wooden leg. You haven’t got a bean but, cripes, we hadn’t got a prayer. It’s not enough to bugger off, you have to be a stayer.  …

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