A poem for old-timers

I remember the cheese of my childhood and the bread that we cut with a knife, 

When the children helped with the housework, and the men went to work, not the wife.


The cheese never needed a fridge and the bread was all crusty and hot.

The children were seldom unhappy and the wife was content with her lot.


I remember the milk from the bottle, with the thick double  cream on the top.

Our dinner came hot from the oven, and not from the fridge in the shop. 


The kids were a lot more contented, they didn’t need money for kicks.

Just a game with their mates in the road and sometimes the Saturday flicks.


I remember the shop on the corner, where a pen’orth of sweets was sold.

Do you think I’m a bit too nostalgic?  Or is it….I’m just getting old?


I remember the ‘loo’ was the lavvy and the bogey man came in the night.

It wasn’t the least bit funny going “out back” with no light.


Hung on a peg in that loo, were interesting items to view,

from newspapers cut into squares. It took little to keep us amused.


Dirty clothes were boiled in the copper, with plenty of rich foamy suds.

But the ironing seemed never ending as Mum pressed everyone’s ‘duds’.


I remember the slap on my backside and the taste of soap if I swore.

Anorexia and diets weren’t heard of and we hadn’t much choice what we wore.


Do you think that bruised our ego? Or our initiative was destroyed?

We ate what was put on the table and I think life was better enjoyed.


But a huge fact not hereto mentioned in this tale of nostalgic rejoice,

Is the reason we all “enjoyed” our lot: we had no bloody choice!


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