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Alone in the workhouse. Is where she gave birth.
The starch Parish Surgeon. A Drunken old Nurse.
The cries of a boy child. In her arms did he lie.
Gently kissing his forehead. Before she did die.

Not to be married. Mentioned the Nurse.
Was not to be heard of. Almost a curse.
No Father to speak of. Illegitimate offspring.
His Mother a corpse. With no wedding ring.

Without relations. Brought up with force.
Grown as a captive. Poverties course.
Life in the workhouse. Juvenile offenders.
Selfish providers. Fat cat Pretenders.

"Mrs Mann", Overseer. An hierarchy lie.
Starves and abuses. Would let them all die.
Nine years of age. Each picking a straw.
The boy stumbles forward. Asking for more.

Gruel knocked aside. The fat man, Bumble.
Shocked and alarmed. Off top shelf does stumble.
Dragged by the scruff. Out in the snow.
Sowerberry’s undertakers is where he will go.

Childish look. Innocent way.
To walk at the head of the hearse, they will pay.
Treated unfair. Leading the dead.
Next to a coffin they position his bed.

Insecure Claypole. With nasty remark.
Temper unleashed. Thrown into the dark.
Overwhelming silence inviting a tear.
By morning, escape. Will leave this room clear.

Seventy mile trek. Things look so bleak.
In London he lands. Dejected and weak.
The first friendly face stands counting his loot.
All wide eyed and fresh. In whistle and flute.

"Jack Dawkins the name. But you call me Dodger.
Need somewhere to stay, cause I know this old Codger."
Old Fagin insists to offer him bread.
A warm place to live. A snug place to bed.

Next mornings instruction as Fagin explains.
We live by our wits. Rely on our brains.
Its not thieving we do. We take it by slight.
If they wanted to keep it, why leave it in sight?

Bet and Nancy drop by. For a drink they are glad.
Showing concern for this down trodden lad.
Oliver’s training goes on for days.
Each time he succeeds is allotted with praise.

The day that gave Oliver oh so much tension.
When he met the man he had heard no one mention.
Gruff, rough and evil, A man no one likes.
With Bulls-eye his dog. The man known as Sikes.

The day comes around, when Oliver goes out. With Charley and Dodger, their isn’t much doubt.
The two older boys get the items they sought. Though in all of the turmoil Oliver’s caught.

Brought before Fang, the court Magistrate. Innocent plea onto deaf ears migrate.
Last minute witness brings light forth to shine. On innocent captive in front of said shrine.
The message is out, the crooks are all fraught. Nancy is allotted to spy in the court.
The boy is acquitted. Nothing is told. Nancy relays that they haven’t been sold.
The kindly old victim shows pity on boy.A quiet misdemeanour, a look in his eye.
A child of worth, should not be alone. Mr Brownlow decides to take Oliver home.
For the first time in ever, contentment and love.Poured onto said urchin from those up above.
A picture looks down on this scene from the wall. Similarity so true, most evident for all.
But outside a danger does start to lament. The signs coming out from a previous event.
Sikes and his lady hide out in the shade. Waiting in patience for mistake to be made.
A simple small errand would easily portray. That Oliver Twist is not of bad way.
Mr Grimwig suggests that the boy should be bound. With a parcel of books and the sum of five pound.
Brownlow agrees but his friend will soon gloat. Of the loss of said books and the crisp five pound note.
Surely as hell the time is upon. When onto the streets the child is soon gone.
But Grimwig still boasts that the boy they did trust. Was simply a fraud and just earning a crust.
The kindly old man does have to agree. That Oliver Twist is about on a spree.
Held up and imprisoned by this awful pair. Terrified boy removed to old Fagin’s lair.
Bill Sikes decides that the boy needs a blow. Nancy steps in, she will not stoop so low.
Be satisfied Bill for you have ruined his life. Condemned the poor boy to an history of strife.
Is that not enough to cast onto him. He has been through the mill, now he’s out on a limb.
Brownlow decides to post a reward. For information on the loss of his young ward.
Bumble arrives for the five guinea toll. As he opens his mouth the lies they do roll.

Oliver is taken, carted away.
By Nancy and Bill to the place where they lay.
No notice is taken to the tears he will sob.
For Sikes plans to take the small boy on a job.

Shepperton town is the place they will go.

To silence the boy a gun he will show.
Darkness will produce where his sights are set on.
A quick in and out and with goods they’ll be gone.

Toby Crackit and Sikes are partners in Crime.
Through a small window will make the boy climb.
But plans all go wrong and they do not get a jot.
Although in the event the poor lad will be shot.

Old Bumble is called to the workhouse for wine.
With widowed matron intending to dine.
Things interrupted the matron must go.
To visit old Sally on deathbed below.

The dying old woman does make good a wrong.
As she pours out a death persons song.
She tells Mrs Corney about a gold locket.
That she in the past had decided to pocket.

Inside it gave clues to someone’s true worth.
As owner was dying whilst still giving birth.
To a small sickened child it could of helped save.
Returned him to family as she went to her grave.

Three Cripples a pub where to Fagin will fast. A man named of Monks will throw light on the past.
The story of Oliver’s plight he does pitch. Not knowing the boy has been left in a ditch.
Giles and Brittle two servants regale. Remembering the robbery they did make fail.
An embellished story that has one slight hitch. The bloodied young man will make their story switch.
Doctor and Constable soon to arrive. While injured is taken upstairs to survive.
Upon seeing Oliver, Miss Rose does exclaim. That burglar and boy are not one and the same.
Officer’s Blather and Doth examine the scene. Oliver soon will explain his regime.
Miss Maylie house owner and her niece Miss Rose. Will not let the boy to a prison expose.
Losberne the surgeon and Rose take some time. For ways to conceal the boy from the crime.
Giles and Brittle are forced to retake. Admitting to Officers that they made a mistake.
Oliver’s life takes an healthy uplift. And lady and niece are so glad of this gift.
Tender care and love, make this young lad at home. Never again need to feel so alone.
Losberne takes Oliver to London to see. Where Brownlow and Bedwin could possibly be.
Upon their journey the news they do find. The persons in question have left England behind.
Without any warning poor Miss Rose gets sick. Oliver runs to get Losberne so quick.
On his return as he walks down the lane. He comes on a man who is writhing in pain.
Having retrieved some assistance for man. Returns towards home just as fast as he can.
Wanting to make certain of good news for Rose. Memory of the man in the lane simply goes.
Maylie’s sons Giles and Harry attend. Harry wants Miss Rose as more than a friend.
Whilst Harry is aiming for fortune and fame. Miss Rose has a sensitive mark on her name.
Although the misdeed was no crime of her own. Her parents wrongs will not leave her alone.
Harry is aiming at Prime Minister. So marriage beneath him would cause quite a stir.
With love in his heart the relentless Harry. Tells Miss Rose once more that he does want to Marry.
Although after this time he will not ask again. A tearful lady does have to refrain.
Oliver wakes up in shock from a sleep. Whilst at the window two men they do peep.
Fagin and other man, run off for their shame. Memories rekindled. The man in the lane.
Giles and Harry soon at Oliver’s aid. Searching the grounds but no trace can be made.
Away from the scene things come to an head. Old Bumble and Corney it seems have been wed.
The matron tells husband about what she’s learned. About the dead woman, money could be earned.
Chance meeting with Monks Bumble does make. To meet this caped man his new wife he does take.
For twenty five pounds a deal is made. She passes the goods for which she has been paid.
The locket from Sally, she did take and hold. Inside of locket a ring made of gold.
Inscribed on the inside the man Monks saw there. The name of Agnes and two locks of hair.
Inclined is the man, evidence must go. Weighted and thrown into rivers own flow.
Sikes is in fever and sweat it does shine. As Fagin arrives to deliver some wine.
Fagin replies he does not think it funny. The sickened Sikes still demands from him money.
Fagin takes Nancy back to his hideaway. To get Sikes the money he must indeed pay.
A visitor arrives, two men speak alone. Inquisitive Nancy can hear their drone.
Whatever she heard commits her to see and knock on the front door of Mrs Maylie.
Admitting to Miss Rose so that she should know. Who kidnapped the boy from Mr Brownlow.
She explains what it is she heard from the other. That Monks is indeed poor Oliver’s brother.
Oliver later is out for a treat. He spots Mr Brownlow out on the street.
The young man relates what he saw unto friends. Mr Giles and Miss Rose to Brownlow attend.
Oliver is allowed a visit to see. Brownlow and Bedwin who don’t disagree.
The story from Nancy is passed onto both. To keep it from Oliver they all swear an oath.
The idea to see Nancy would be a vantage. So visit they must, upon London Bridge.
Plans are drawn up things are in sight. The deadline is Sunday. The time is midnight.
Sowerberrie Robbed, Claypole the crook. To London a journey. The police he should duck.
A meeting with Fagin does help to define. The shaking of hands as this union align.
With Dodger locked up the need for a new. Association, by joining the crew.
First on the agenda a visit to court. To view on the sentence that Dodger has bought.
The sentence is in, result deportation. For Dodger a blow, Fagin some irritation.
Fagin tells Noah he will give him one pound. To latch on to Nancy and follow her around.
The midnight meeting from shadows perceived. Of talk about Monks who is not too relieved.
Spying for gentry Nancy will announce. When Monks will attend at that old ale house.
Idea as such, he will be forced to declare. The truth about all he has worked for and where.
Sikes is informed of Nancy’s concern. Anger and hatred through him will burn.
When he returns home, throws the girl onto bed. Lifts up his stick and beats Nancy dead.
Sikes will flee London the following day but tries to drown Bulls-eye who could give him away.
Brownlow captures Monks, taking him to his home. After constant question his cover is blown.
The secret of Monks they were soon to discover. Real name Edward Leeford they then did uncover.
His father he told was forced into marriage. With woman with whom he had tried to disparage.
This loveless union for the father was coarse. So he left but was not to secure a divorce.
Agnes Fleming, this lady became his only affection. The two of them seemingly lost their direction.
As a result of this loving affair. A woman alone with unborn child to care.
Fagin and Noah by police are detained. Though Sikes and his freedom still they remained.
Held up alone at his iniquitous den. Out of the way of all other men.
Bates he does follow, Bulls-eyehe will track. Calling on others to help him attack.
Murderer Sikes is forced now to flee. For the ****** he did to his poor Nancy.
He uses the rooftop with avoiding intent. Hoping that crowds will soon give up, relent.
Using a rope to air his escape. About his person the rope he will drape.
High up on rooftop Sikes does his trek. With rope still entwined in a loop around his neck.
A slip as he ran caused a rooftile to loose. Effecting in Sikes with his head in this noose.
Onlookers can see this of this man that they dread. Asphyxiated. Hanging stone dead.
They say what it is that made this man die. Was caused by seeing into Nancy’s eye.
That her ghost came along and did have its way. Making Bill Sikes forever pay.
Even though this story we cannot prove. For many a persons minds this does indeed sooth.
A Letter its told was found by another. Proving to us to be Edwards mother.
Destroying both a Will and letter. Ensuring that Edwards life will be better.
Agnes’s father found out when she left. Became broken heart and soon to bereft.
His shame and honour were both denied. Accelerated greatly the time when he died.
Poor little sister is taken we see. By good Samaritan lady named Mrs Maylie.
Bringing this child up as her own. Miss Rose as she is now, to us be it known.
Bumble and his wife confess. To their dealings in this mess.
Concealing to Oliver’s history. Never again, office be held by he.
Harry’s makes change of his life’s employ. Prime Ministers aim he will deny.
And thus open another direction. To marry her of his hearts affection.
Fagin is sentenced for all of his crimes. The Gallows imposed for his evil times.
Oliver will feel a need to beset. Fagin for proof of his legitimate
Noah is pardoned, excluded his time. For his testimonie about Fagin’s crime.
Monks travels by ship to the new world. It isn't to long until his life is unfurled.
His wicked ways again he will try. Imprisoned, eventually this is where he will die.
Oliver becomes the adopted son. Brownlow a father does also become.
Miss Rose as aunt that will often frequent. To see Olivers life gaining so much betterment,
Life now to all will be a good friend.
This story is formally now at an end.
A poetic translation of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens..
May 28th 2011
Olivia Kent Jan 2014
There was a chap called Charlie.
Who lived in separation.
In total world of degradation.
Father left when he were nine.
A raging alcoholic.
Charlie, his brother and his mother.
Sent off to the workhouse.
In the land of Lambeth.
No palace.
The family were ushered into areas of segregation.
Mother and children apart in our apparently grand nation.
Product of shame documented by satirists.
Dickens's favourite topic.
Poor folks made poorer,

In workhouses designed to embarrass.
Those already destitute,
Not by choice for sure.
Only crime being poor.
Dignity stripped.
Destroyed of heart.
Wrecked in health
To reduce their being even more.
God help you if you were not fit.
**** of the earth, you were purged.

We the Brits now get benefits,
Be grateful that we do.

___________________­____

Charlie found extreme success.
When as a film star of the silent kind.
With a plaque on the wall of his once posh house in Vauxhall.
His surname it was Chaplin!
By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Al Drood Jul 2019
At six o’clock your day begins
You pray forgiveness for your sins
Your gruel and your clothes are thin
At the workhouse

Pick oakum ‘til your fingers bleed
It matters not your age nor creed
The overseer will tend your needs
At the workhouse

At noon you take your daily bread
A little meat or cheese instead
You eat in silence bow your head
At the workhouse

And when the working day is o’er
Your body aches your hands are sore
Your bed’s a pallet on the floor
At the workhouse

And pauper when your day is past
There’ll be no coffin gilt with brass
You’ll lie in sackcloth ‘neath the grass
At the workhouse
In the worst hour of the worst season
    of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
    He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
    There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
    Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
it used to be a work house you know,
alongside the road. there is no idea
when it changed to a hospital, creating
another fear. now it is empty up for sale.

a long time.

they say the owner cut down trees ilegally,
noticed from the planning office
opposite. he is punished.

one tree lays across the wall,no one
tidies things .

we drive at 30mph as is the law,
strain to see the old architecture,
one eye on the road.

it is empty a long time.

sbm.
They want more of you for less and that's how it swings,
the pretty lady plays me a song, but I don't know the words so
I hum along,
they want to see and never hear, want you begging somewhere at the rear in the penny stalls and it falls into that they don't want you at all.

If I could play the banjo or maybe the ukelele I'd be sweet, I wouldn't have to meet the scowls of howling managers with jowls so slack they look as if they're going when they're really coming back and the pretty lady plays a song,
it's for me,
a little bit of harmony among all this insanity and tomorrow if it comes on time they'll be waiting there all prim and primed to shoot.

Do I give a hoot?

If they want more of me for less of me we'll see how much they get and I bet it won't be much,
I touch wood for luck and **** 'em,
that the way it swings and the pretty lady sings for me,
things are looking up.
The workhouse door is open and
you know that Christmas comes,
the sons of sons of father's mums all
congregate and with
not a *** to **** in,
with one voice all begin to sing,
'Oh tidings of comfort and joy'
comfort the poor boy 'cause he ain't
got a bean
not seen a meal for a week,
see more
see more
take a peek through the workhouse door.

And for some and sometimes for
more than some
Christmas is just another chore to do
another happiness to struggle through.
'comfort and joy'
Staring corpselike at the ceiling,
See his harsh, unrazored features,
Ghastly brown against the pillow,
And his throat--so strangely bandaged!

Lack of work and lack of victuals,
A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse
Made the world so black a riddle

That he plunged for a solution;
And, although his knife was edgeless,
He was sinking fast towards one,
When they came, and found, and saved him.

Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.

In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,
White and wild his eyeballs glisten;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!
The great con moves along
tent city's not gone
it's just moved around the corner
where your eye does not see it.

A brave new world indeed
they
feed us on ******* expecting respect
and say,
it's all hunky dory,
well
they Fukin bore me.

We're worse off now than we've ever been
'cept for the queen
she's just as rich as can be while
we got tents on the side streets
rough sleepers in the malls
and employers pleading poverty
what a load of *****.

A standard of living is giving
not taking, not stealing by dealing
from the bottom of the pack

what is it we lack?
compassion?
empathy?
no good asking me they've cut
out my tongue
the great con goes on and we are being
silenced
one
by
one
until we too are gone.
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
Old Elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade
And when dark tempests mimic thunder made
While darkness came as it would strangle light
With the black tempest of a winter night
That rocked thee like a cradle to thy root
How did I love to hear the winds upbraid
Thy strength without while all within was mute
It seasoned comfort to our hearts desire
We felt thy kind protection like a friend
And pitched our chairs up closer to the fire
Enjoying comforts that was was never penned

Old favourite tree thoust seen times changes lower
But change till now did never come to thee
For time beheld thee as his sacred dower
And nature claimed thee her domestic tree
Storms came and shook thee with aliving power
Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots hath been
Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower
Till earth grew iron—still thy leaves was green
The children sought thee in thy summer shade
And made their play house rings of sticks and stone
The mavis sang and felt himself alone
While in they leaves his early nest was made
And I did feel his happiness mine own
Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed

Friend not inanimate—tho stocks and stones
There are and many cloathed in flesh and bones
Thou ownd a lnaguage by which hearts are stirred
Deeper than by the attribute of words
Thine spoke a feeling known in every tongue
Language of pity and the force of wrong
What cant assumes what hypocrites may dare
Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are

I see a picture that thy fate displays
And learn a lesson from thy destiny
Self interest saw thee stand in freedoms ways
So thy old shadow must a tyrant be
Thoust heard the knave abusing those in power
Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free
Thoust sheltered hypocrites in many an hour
That when in power would never shelter thee
Thoust heard the knave supply his canting powers
With wrongs illusions when he wanted friends
That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers
And when clouds vanished made thy shade ammends
With axe at root he felled thee to the ground
And barked of freedom—O I hate that sound

It grows the cant terms of enslaving tools
To wrong another by the name of right
It grows a liscence with oer bearing fools
To cheat plain honesty by force of might
Thus came enclosure—ruin was her guide
But freedoms clapping hands enjoyed the sight
Tho comforts cottage soon was ****** aside
And workhouse prisons raised upon the scite
Een natures dwelling far away from men
The common heath became the spoilers prey
The rabbit had not where to make his den
And labours only cow was drove away
No matter—wrong was right and right was wrong
And freedoms brawl was sanction to the song

Such was thy ruin music making Elm
The rights of freedom was to injure thine
As thou wert served so would they overwhelm
In freedoms name the little so would they over whelm
And these are knaves that brawl for better laws
And cant of tyranny in stronger powers
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
And freedoms birthright from the weak devours
The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
A small, strange child--so aged yet so young!--
Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail.
I hear the bugle now,I
see the frugal how they scrimp to save,to
become the slave of lesser gods,to
calculate the weights,though even,odd it seems
that in my dreams all things being equal,
no one prepared for me the sequel to the sage
or wrote homework on the workhouse page, when
poverty becomes all the rage
I shall be rich,
shall stitch in all its finery with golden threads and count my wealth in binary code,
throw digits to the Kings of the road when
poverty becomes of age.
M Lundy Feb 2011
Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great ****, great ***, could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."

But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.

She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.

She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.

"Pathetic," Edie muttered.

An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.

Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.

Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.

Oh well.
Submission.

She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.

"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."

She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.
Copyright 2010 M.E. Lundy
A Mareship Sep 2013
“Women sync up with the moon,

like the sea does,

and it makes them unpredictable.”

he said.

(Surely not –

the sea and the moon are as predictable as you like!

you can chart them with maps!)

“Ah, but how about tsunami’s

that come along from nowhere

and drown the innocent?”

(Tsunamis aren’t caused by the moon,

they’re a result of the earth crashing into itself

and we are the earth,

us men,

and we drown the innocent.)

Every time I look at the moon -

(and I look at it often because I’m that kind of boy),

I can’t help but think of every woman in the world,

of every class and ever colour,

who has looked up at it too.

Cleopatra,

Kate Moss,

Katherine Hepburn,

Workhouse women with broken nails,

Baudelaire’s pale thin girls,

Courtney Love,

Female football players,

And how they feel

(or felt)

just as separate

or as close to it

As I do.
Poverty,
food in the reclamation yard.

Life's tough,
it's hard to be  full of energy when
the meter is empty and all you see
are the toffs who scoff at society.

Poverty,
cardboard caskets in the cemetery.

There's a niche between the have and the have nots,
the place they throw away food and it rots,
bread, bread but not for the dead and the mould
we can give to the weary and old,
it's share and share and **** them, they don't count
and we don't care.

Circumstance gives a fat chance and the fat cats get the fat other than that all is well for the poor and the needy who dwell in the dark because the meter is empty.

Poverty,
in the park, on the bench, what a stench,
why don't they bathe, why don't they shave, why don't they save the pittance they get or better yet why give them a pittance, give them ****** all?

Poverty,
call for ticket number forty three, your benefits have changed please come to booth B.

We are being outsourced to be the dampcourse in some old Etonian duck pond, all expenses paid by another raid on the 'workshy' who in any case will get by
because we're all in this together dontya know.

Poverty
is just a name they use to defuse the ticking bomb,  
castigate the poor, exonerate the rich,
build another workhouse and life's not such a *****.

We know differently, we who live poverty, we who see inequality but we still and will
**** for a dime.
Minimum hours
minimal powers.
let the pennies shower down on those in the new age 'workhouse'
we're back to the slums where the bosses toss crumbs to the masses and
what passes as good is as good as it gets, when the greedy get all and the poor get sod all.
The cries of the City,unheard since Victoria,I mean the Queen,not the place and that is the pity of it,
trapped in this sea where only the successful can be seen as being smug,
We should heave out the plug and watch them go down,give back the town to the people who share in it,those who care and those I swear will win.
Unless the cheapness of gin begins to rear its head and the poor all get hammered instead.
When the **** hits the fan we forget the soup van and it's bottles all round and around we all go.
If the cold doesn't **** us we'll be buried in snow and they'll cover the cracks
with more minimum contracts.
In the doorways of regret where the cold winds of disappointment and let's not forget debt,reside
I have hidden thoughts and notebooks,there inside the darkened,unlit space,afraid to face and yet I must decide
that where these things reside, do I also want to live.

With nothing left to give or choose and holes in both of my worn out shoes,cardboard for a comfy bed,I am being slowly led into my own impoverishment.
Intent on keeping from the workhouse door and wanting more than what I've got
I spot each opportunity and score accordingly,
three points for a no hope job placement and being lent on by the job centre,who seem bent on placing me,somewhere where I should not be.
A point each for all charities and gold stars for the few who try to please the many,I haven't any words that can express just how the streets can mess you up.
Soup runs get a special mention for delivering to my attention,beef and broth and crusty bread
so if is that I am being led into the downtown streets, at least I'll go well fed and with company,
so many folks like me
down and misunderstood,both bad and good and some who could be so much more than
the man you'd rather not run into when out with friends and they ask you to,dig deep and
contribute
you, in your suit cannot explain
why it is you give and don't complain to politicians sat in high court clubs
and you,sat in the city pubs with colleagues,leagues away from streets which pay
no attention any more
to regrets inside the darkened doorway.
Here I stay like yesterday,the day before and like a hundred days or more,
if providence prevails
one day for sure all ships will sail into the harbour
and these thought I harbour greedily as I lay down to drink my cup of tea and sift through countless memories
and try to make some sense of it.
Commercial poverty
an empty property?
there's money in muck or
so they say.

Vacant faces say it all no need for writing on the wall
and who could read it anyway.
Education in the pay of politicians.
They dumb us down to line us up to knock us down,
intelligence is frowned upon and yet
we get back up and carry on.

Fodder for the factory,
the workhouse is a house when all is said and done.
I see no ships
I see no Sun,
blinded on the run and some place far away from the refuse tips and folderol  I'll find a place to stay and sit to read a book and take some time to take a look at what things really look like.
Jude kyrie Sep 2016
The Mudlark

1869
The little boy was hungry.
London was not a benevolent place
for the children of the unwashed masses.
The great Queen Victoria was in permanent mourning.
Grief encapsulated her heart at the loss of her soulmate
Her consort her husband and father of her nine children.
Her beloved Albert.

Hunger and cold were striking the young boy
He was an orphan he knew he was seven
but was not sure of any birthdates.
They had found him wrapped in an old coat
On the orphanage steps.
At seven he ran away from the cruelty of the place.
And foraged in the muddy shores of the Thames river.
Finding bric a brac  a medal a coin a piece of jewelry.
In the thick mud that ****** his bare feet deep into it.

He was having a bad day nothing to sell there would be no food
Or a bed he would sleep in the park under the bushes
Until the policeman found him.he would run away
So that he could not be sent to the workhouse.
They made small boys go inside the chimneys
Of great houses to clean off the soot.

Then a sliver of light from an amost hidden moon
It glinted in the mud he rushed over and picked it up.
It was a beautiful cameo broach gold encrusted ivory
A lovely woman was depicted in it.

In his young life he had never seen anything as lovely.
He showed it to the man who buys the findings of the mudlarks
As the boys were known.
He said it is the likeness of queen Victoria
She is the mother of all the British Empire.
He said is she my mother too?
She is everybody’s mother young lad.
He refused to sell the cameo broach.
No it is of my mother he said.

A week later at Buckingham palace.
A great event was held.
He found a wide gap in the railings.
To allow his thin frail body through.
In the bushes he could hear the throng of celebration.
Creeping around he found a courtyard.
A great lady was sat alone on a bench.
She was weeping.
He moved to her she was older but unmistakably
it was the lady on the broach.

She was alarmed as she saw the young said.
Go away I shall call the guards you ruffian.
But I wish you no harm ma'am he said softly.
I found your broach and I want to return it to you.
In the tiny hand he offered the item to her.
She picked it up from him.

This was given to me by my dear Albert.
I lost it overboard in the river Thames fifteen years ago.

I found it in the mud mother.
Mother she asked quizzically.
I was told you are the mother of all the children in your empire.
And I do not have a mother I am an orphan.
The old lady felt tears flowing in her eyes.
Yes I am your mother dear.
The guards saw him and grabbed him
You will get a beating for this young lad
A good beating.
The lady stood up no one shall lay a hand on this boy.
He has brought me a signal my beloved Albert.
It is time for me to return To my duties
And look after the millions of children in my empire.
And true to her word
she discarded her deep depression and widows weaves.
To take her empire to its mst  glorious days.

The young boy was given a job in the palace
And educated to become a fine gentleman
A lawyer who advocated for the poor and lost
In London’s streets.
After her beloved Albert died the heartbroken empress became reclusive for years
Until this date when she awoke to lead the country to it highest pinnacle
Jude
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2019
I couldn’t tell you why
Not here and now at least
You would never understand
Could not understand.
The structure of our thoughts
Make such complexity impossible
The greatest sadness is that our lives
Are lived out in such perverse ignorance
All that we remember is the apartness
How we bind ourselves in love to lies.

Sorrow is like the shattering of glass
Broken biscuits in tins
The howl of the workhouse
We as frail as a bird’s wing.

Love Mary
Xxxx
back then he wor nobbut a sapling,
kindling
grown to be the new King,
spawn of the mill and the pawnshop
and when the workhouse would be his
last stop,
he dreamt on.

In the home where the hotpot was bubbling
and the door locked so as not to let no trouble in
dad sat grumbling,
dad always did when grandma had hid his baccy.

Milltown memories underneath tall smoking chimneys
where even the poorest fell in love.
I had to light another candle
must be getting too old
can't handle the cold,
but the expense,
oh God
it'll ruin me,
put me in the workhouse
I'll be as poor as a church mouse
and all I wanted was a bit of warmth.
Behind facades
the Devil plays cards
drawing an ace from
the hole.

Masks.

we all wear them
some share them
blurring faces.

If you haven't guessed already
said he
knowingly
the Central line is showing me
many masks,

some happy
some sad
some make me glad
that mine is neutral.

another day at the workhouse
which is like the ale house
except there's no beer,

some say it's the poor house
but it can't be
he said
knowingly.
They'll soon move him on,
yes dearie.
the beggar that bothers you
will shortly be gone,

and I'm going back
beyond the workhouse doors
down by the dockside
down on the Southside
mixing with the ******

some are flower girls
some are sour girls
some are
past the eleventh hour girls
some give
steaming mugs of Chinese tea
and
we're all beggars here
but it doesn't bother me.

All are pleading poverty
selling their sobriety
for
dreams across an
***** sea
I wonder if any hope's left
for me
before they move me on
Gypsy Dec 2020
Our homes are the prisons...

Our home is the Workhouse..

Far from the longest pleasures
Rancorous hatred - Industry and Energy
That great dust heap economy - a shuttered mansion
Nations and Governments
Tragedy as a farce - for Blood and Plunder...

Between education and catastrophe
The terrorist and the policemen
These bloodthirsty guttersnipes..

For pleasure and palaces
Evil can always find a home
All us abstract lovers - inorganic to the universe...

Humanity - an ingenious machine for being
An ape or an angel
A sentiment artfully assumed
Guinea pigs - in a laboratory of gods
A chain of injustice and oppression
Outlawed - exiled
To the past age of this Earth..

Gypsy
..and now that we're subsidised by the state
it doesn't matter about being
late
we're no longer working nine to five
I am just trying
to stay alive.

But
enough rope is enough for the hanging
and I ain't hanging around for that,

and that, is the flat rate of income tax soaring,

this decade will become known as the roaring
twenties,
I can already hear the roaring of the female worker as the twenty pound notes in her wages desert her
and the men?
well
they'll be in the **** again.

we're done for
doomed
the workhouse looms

Marshalsea advertises rooms in the Metro
compact and bijou
for a touch of the retro
and
we're done for.
I heard that Sadiq Khan was on the streets of Newham
and I thought surely he couldn't be begging
because that's the only time that we'd see him,
but it was probably votes he was looking for

well
look no more,
someone else got the keys to the..
..oh wait..

News
Breaking Now,

somehow
it looks like it looked like in 1388
and here we are
waiting for the
Workhouse to open.
For the unlucky
who are
evicted from flats
kicked out of rooms
because they can't
pay the rent
the workhouse looms.

Dickensian rules apply.

— The End —