Chickens picking among wildflowers.
Undug patches with netting bowers.
Tuberculosis that’s running rife.
Sore, scrubbed hands on every wife.
Pebbledash cottages with rotting sills.
Made of dryrot and carpenters bills.
The mantle pops a smell of gas.
Shiny the hob and fenders brass.
Coal from the cellar rises in dust.
While draught through a crevice blows disgust.
The out side room is shared by many.
In brutal weather and sometimes sunny.
Still the wildflowers bloom on.
Sally Plumb
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