A Factory

Terry Trainor By Terry Trainor, 13th Oct 2012 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Poetry

Life in this factory was grim and hard. The workers hated their jobs and the managers hated the workers.

A Factory

Shuffling past grey, smoke painted houses, once they could be seen a warm red brick colour,
Noisy children kicking around anything they could find, an old tin can, hat, even each other
White collar workers would tut and say out loud what a place to live, when they set the rents,
Mr white shirt, understands, he pays the low wage in the mills, coal mines, and sets lifestyle

Their greed, righteous indignation, grinded down the worker, with the slogan, you'r fired
The steam blowers whistle at half an hour before clocking in, then one at ten minutes,
The whistles were not help the, odd, worker who had slept in, it was there to control,
So by controlling cultures and strict time measures, Mr White shirt, controlled real hopes.

This battered road was still cobble stones slippery if you walked without looking or ran,
Into the Grey angry factory, people are told they must have overalls on inside the mill,
Another, way to take away ones, self image dignity, it told every one do as you'r told,
After few years the work wise employees, would jump, clean the bosses shoes. not conseance.

If the manual worker met a manager out side of office hours, they would ignore each other,
At weekends down the pub,in there at opening time, returning home later carried by friends,
Some of the real hard drinkers, would stash a bottle of the hard stuff in his allotment,
Sometimes waking up on the floor of his shed, wife goes mad, as she had to miss church.

Saturday nights were the best, all down the working mans club for cheaper booze, and a fight,
People would stagger and trip over the dance floor, dancing with a friensd wife, too close,
And the slot machines had queues waiting for their g,o sixpence, to lose hard begrudged wages.
Then when the bells rang it was time to go, to the fish and chip and stand smoking, waiting.

Some took their fish and chips home, some opened them right away, the were warm and tasty,
Some times they sold huge onions from a pickle jar, what better way to end a beautiful meal,
As the sun rises behind the fog to lightened bedrooms, workers, felt like s**t, what a life,
Some men up early to make a cup of tea, so he could drink leftover booze from last Christmas.

Sunday morning was around the kitchen, roasting, beef, lamb, pig trotters anything they had,
Nearing midday the man of the house would say, I'm off down the allotments be back about 2.30,
All it meant was the the father would be down the pub again, for a hair of the dog, hairy dog,
And when the two o'clock bell went, it was closing time, all drunk from the night before.

So after a beautiful dinner made with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, grave the whole works,
Father went up stairs for a nap, for Sunday night opening time, he would wash, Old Spice, great,
Clubs have a special night on Sunday, singing on the old piano drinking pints by the dozen,
Many of the people in the bar listening to that would have to shout their conversations, loud.

As the night drew to an end, drunken depressed men and woman dragged their feet over cobbles,
Loud good nights, shout when one left the group, is was our turn, see you all next Saturday,
Chatting for half an hour then going to bed, what was that?next it was the work whistle, get up,
So if we went feeling sick and tired this everlasting routine cannot change, it's their life.


Factories, Factory Law

Meet the author

author avatar Terry Trainor
I am a Poet.
My passion is to write about nature and the history of nature.

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