Stone slab pavements in cobbled streets, 

Working class townsfolk with Coker clad feet.

Women with shawls on ,the men wearing caps.

A rare hardy breed, both women and chaps

The whistle has blown, their all in a flurry.

They dare not be late ,their all in a hurry.

                                -

The houses were terraced, and all in a row.

Two up two down with a stone flagged floor.

We didn't have a bathroom  and our " loo "was

out of doors, a mangle in the backyard

for wringing out our clothes.

                             -

The streets they were our playground

we didn't venture far ,we weren't in too much danger

from passing tram or car

But fun we had in plenty, and our toys were

very few,  our clothes were always dirty,

but we always made them do.

                                  -

Our mums and dads they worked so hard on dockland

or the mills, they couldn't afford a holiday

or suffer any ills.

but we were only children then and didn't understand

and we believed our mum and dads, 

we're the finest in the land

                                -

Life was good when we were kids,we 

didn't give a damn

No gourmet meals upon the table but we

had bread and jam.

We  had hot-pot on occasion, my was

that a treat.made by a white haired lady

at the bottom of our street.

                               -

Alas those days have passed us by our 

childhoods slipped away,

but in my heart those days live on although

my hair is grey

My memories walk those cobbled streets

where my sisters used to play.

and to hear the voice of mum and dad

now sadly passed away.

                               -

I'm in the autumn of my days now,and regrets

are very few,I don't count my misfortunes

I have better things to do 

instead I count my blessings, of which I have

galore, and no man living upon this earth,could really ask for more.

                                           -

So farewell my generation ,the likes 

we'll see no more, no more sitting round the fire

upon a stone flagged floor

The sound of clogs in gas lit streets are relics

of our past.

And the memories of long ago 

will forever last.

 

The word "Coker" was a local name for the

clog irons nailed to the sole and heel of the clog

Have a nice day  ?