Poverty In The UK
From the lamplight of the factories, to the smoke and endless fumes
The workers toiled from dawn till dusk on ever spinning looms,
Ne'er did these places hear the sound of each bitter tear cried,
These were the places where some were born and just as many died. The workhouses and squats of Victoria's kingdom fare,
Never saw many smiles, although many memories formed there,
Painful memories for all but the rich, who sat in their office rooms,
Looking out as poverty brought a fresh face to its doom. Peas pudding, porridge and gruel was all that they could eat,
Well I suppose it's better than living cold out there on the street,
Children never knew their childhoods, Old men turned sour,
But that's what you get from England, In Industries finest hour. Girls forced to walk the streets, boys forced down the pit,
All that waited when they got home was even more of it,
Fathers walked out on mothers, to find work further afield,
Either that or dying as another British shield. Only memories of the rich ever shall remain,
History books have never been a poor man's game,
If we had a true encounter of what they went through,
The whole of British history would leave its scars on you. Down by the docks, where the waters ebb and flow,
Is where the old man sits, drowning his sorrows,
Sitting there in a tattered old coat, As away with the tides his memories float.
