Spare a thought for the terraces,
The rows and rows of townhouses,
Laid together like crops,
Young families and single parents and renters,
Elbow to elbow,
Like sardine cans of red brick,

And like a harvest,
They are the Mans bounty,
A store shelf of useful bodies,
The working class of corn and hops,
Average Joes and Janes,
Meat for the stock market butcher,

These people,
In their streets of grey,
They weren’t born to work,
But they need work to subsist,
Captive livestock so to speak,
And the terraces provide.

Comments
  1. The daily grind. Ah but..there is a privilege in the work. Amen

  2. Cassa Bassa says:

    Regardless of that aspect of the reality, children know only their carer’s love and care, and that’s more than enough for them.

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