Happy Years, or perhaps not
When I was a child mother worked at a fish factory
she had to leave early in the morning so i had to
brush my teeth and wash my face in icy cold water.
In a house of five families there was no bathroom and
only one toilet in the basement and it was my job to
empty the chamber pot before going to school.
From the socialists in power then it was seen to that
every child got breakfast at school.
When you are a child, poverty is abstract if you get
enough food like boiled potatoes, fried turnips and
mother’s home made fish cakes. On Sundays we had
– dare I say it- meat cakes with mushy peas and
of course boiled potatoes. The rest of that feast were
mixed together and fried as an evening meal.
Our poverty was lack of hygiene wearing our jumpers
too long and underwear had to be worn until April as we
only had one set each. But as a child I never concerned
myself with bagatelles, it was only in my teens I became
aware of our poverty and felt shame; a profound rooted
sense of inferiority, which made my prickly and on guard.
You are happy yes you know you are, then an avalanche
A mountain of shit hit you and it will never wash off.
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