The the haystack was a liar

Mothers are familiar with bums

With bitten nipples colic in the tum

Was it for this they wore a wedding gown

Bore a heavy child without a frown

Fingers stained with nicotine and shit.

Now stir the dinner wash the baby kit

They did not know the nearness of their Doom

In the haystacks sunny afternoon .

Father in the coal mine black with dust

The tin bath waiting mother filled with lust.

There has to be a cat before the fire

A blackened kettle bows,it’s Lancashire.

Tea that makes your hair curl help them on.

They stumble up the stairs to bed again

What’s satire to the rich with their plum tones

Is near the truth, the rickets in the bone

I welcome comments and criticism

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