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