THE CHIMNEY RIDDEN ROWS

THE CHIMNEY RIDDEN ROWS


The chimney ridden rows are watchtowers for the crows
And cages for the factory girls who serve their old men toast
Who use it as a dunking biscuit, puts their minds in play
Prepares them for the day, a right repulsive ritual I’d say

Still where they’re poor they’re characters and my nose ain’t turned up none
And I’m looking at the laundry wondering how it all gets done
Should props ever be absent it would make it all hang low
Along with mugs it conjures up a sweet suburban glow


We’ll all drown our sorrows and punch out some old tunes
On the old honky-tonk that’s ale stained through and through
There’s no one here ain’t welcome and don’t it chill your spine
To crash your sweed after a feed and court a wench like mine?

The smog of industry played knickknack on their knees
A clocking in card chemistry that stinks like gone off cheese
But I’ve no bone to pick; I know what makes them tick
And if I paid it lip service you’d probably be sick

But where they’re sheep they’re just asleep and I’ve worn wool at times
So who am I to chuckle at their sacred Auld Lang sines?
There’s work shirts on the hangers in the wardrobes in the rooms
Out of the reach of infants who’ll be wearing them soon


We’ll all drown our sorrows and punch out some old tunes
On the old honky-tonk that’s ale stained through and through
There’s no one here aint welcome and don’t it chill your spine
To crash your sweed after a feed and court a wench like mine?

Amongst a mush of soaps transmitting similar folks
Take note a select variety of accents from Land’s end to Jon O Groats
They’re bulletins of who are nagging bloody who
For bread and butter reasons that drinks wit out of me and you
But this type of complaint you’ve heard a trillion times before
And who am I to poke this festering old hat through your door?
You’re probably happy in your ways far less complex than me
As long as your aware your three score years and ten are sweet

Then you can all drown your sorrows and punch out some old tunes
On the old honky-tonk that’s ale stained through and through
There’s no one here ain’t welcome and don’t it chill your spine to crash your sweed after a feed and court a wench like mine?


TIM SANSOM SPRING 1986