Windsor Street

 

No bunting flutters in the breeze,

no boys and girls, dressed up so neat,

with not a scratch upon their knees.

There are no flags on Windsor Street.

 

There are no parties in the yard,

the sandwiches will hold no meat.

They will send no greetings card

‘from the residents of Windsor Street’.

 

There are no beds of scented flowers,

there are no open arms to greet

the crumpled masses who spend their hours

huddled in corners on Windsor Street.

 

There are no canapés or quince

or any kind of special treat -

just calorific saturated fats since

the jobs were lost on Windsor Street.

 

So when the bride comes down the aisle

with platitudes thrown under her feet

the folk will try to raise a smile

at the injustice wrought on Windsor Street.

 

The cheering crowds will sing the happy couples praise,

choreographed to match the beat

of marching bands on sunny days

that never pierce the shadows on Windsor Street.

 

When the happy couple go to be bed

and lay beneath their privileged sheet

not a single thought enters their heads

of the detritus on Windsor Street.

 

Little England has it’s sideshow

with celebrities they’ll never meet -

meanwhile resentment will flourish and grow

in the humble abodes on Windsor Street.