Three Generations of worker looked up in the fall of the mid-morning sun
United in theme for maybe the first time, focused on getting it done
Signaled as one with a rap on the pain, then summonsed to wait at the door
Smuggled out delph and Buttery Brack. We wolfed what we got and then more
There was one bag of crisps for the gossin while meself and me father abstained
Then the warning went up to start digging again for it wouldn’t be long till it rained
But the clouds held tight for the afternoon and the three of us got to be men
Like the Buttery brack I’ll have more of that should it ever be offered again
©Rhymeclub.com
A poem about digging the foundations of a garden shed. Who’d have thought we’d find each other?
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