Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.

Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.

Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.

Down behind the communal garages,
Our knees were scabbed and scarred,
Badges of honour, to ten-year old savages,
Earnt in chasis' of burnt out cars.

There, on the side of a wall,
Nineteen-Sixteen, had been daubed in emulsion,
Just another target for our ball,
To find its meaning ? we had no compulsion.

It was a circular Nine, like a giant comma,
And the Six was rotund, as well,
Against all the rules Sister Mary of the Immaculate Madonna
taught, in those hand-writing classes from hell.

It was similar to a giant 1690,
I'd seen in another part of town,
On the gable-end of a property emptied,
Before an our street versus your street showdown.

Then one day, the Old Fella' explained,
In 1916 we stood up for ourselves,
A pride in our nation regained,
As the G.P.O. was shook to its shelves.

"Son, we tired of crawling on our belly,
Being beaten, battered and conned,
Surely you've heard me talk of Connolly ?"
I said, Yeh he's me favourite James Bond.

But this was Liverpool, Nineteen Seventy-Two,
And me Da' had been over here years,
What he was on about, I never had a clue,
Though it was the first time I ever saw him shed tears.

Go on, my Son, go out and box,
don't wave this chance good-bye,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

The Judges have it Fifty/Fifty, an equinox,
apply yourself. . . apply,
Go on my Son, go out and box.

Keep it crafty, like the fox,
acid to his alkali,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

Jab, Jab, Hook! Unpick the locks,
it's time to modify,
Go on my Son, go out and box.

Unloading pallets of concrete blocks
until the day you die ?
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

Win this Round, escape the docks,
would I tell you a lie ?
Go on my Son, go out and box,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

In B and B flop-houses, poems I wrote,
Stuffed into damp pockets, of a Donkey-Jacket coat.
Poems about building-sites and too much beer,
Being far from home, despair and fear.
I read them to comrades, who all nodded their heads,
Then went back to sleep, in one room with eight beds.
I read them to lads, who for the first time,
Sat and listened, to words, their rhythm and rhyme.

Folkestone, Dover, Hastings, Brighton and Hove,
I wrote poems, by the light of a Camping Gaz stove,
Describing MY feelings, MY way of life,
Cut straight to the bone, like a Stanley Craft Knife.
The Channel Tunnel, dumpers and cranes,
Concrete burns, bruises, hangovers. . .shame.
Days without eating, nights full of drinking,
Hours on a Shovel, digging without thinking.

Then along came the books, I started reading at night,
Discovered Jack London, by wind-up torchlight.
I read more and more, captivated by books charms,
As my work-mates pursued , bar-maids down the Kings Arms.

Then one day, McNamara, with his belly full of beer,
Came looking for me, called me a queer.
". . .Reading and writing ??? Its NOT for the likes of us. . ."
I agreed begrudgingly, with this. . .. back-end of a bus.
He helped me gather up, my words and my books,
Into a couple of barrows, like scrap-metal crooks,
And wheeled them over, to where we burned the pallets,
Electric cable(for the copper)and broken slab-laying mallets.
They went on the embers, which began to ignite,
And from my caravan window, I watched them burn through the night.
As they glowed, I felt pity, not anger,
At the ****** ignorance, of this eighteen stone Ganger,
Who believed words were impotent, compared to the fist,
Our lives were mapped out, digging trenches, getting ******.

But the books had given me hope, that life was for living,
Not dying at Sixty, when your body just gives in,
Knees knackered, back broken, knuckles dead with rheumatics,
From working in all weathers, holding hammers, pneumatic.

Days later, on a Porta-Loo, McNamara settled down,
With a copy of ******* and a hard-on to pound.
He never smelled the petrol, mesmerised by *******
And pleasured himself, quickly, across the bottom of his vest.
Sparked up a rollie, relieved and relaxed,
Thinking of Fridays time-sheets to be faxed.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM !!!!!

We heard the explosion, looked to the sky,
Saw Doctor Who 's Tardis go flying by.
But it wasn't a Time Lord, just a burning box,
With a melting Eighteen stone Ganger, still holding his ****.
McNamara, was identified by the fillings in his teeth,
And buried, by the Council, just outside Haywards Heath.
If I hadn't continued writing, McNamaras threats, defied
No-one would know about him, or the way that he died.

Books and words are everything, they lift the mind
and they raise the anchor,
And they let me tell your tale, McNamara. . . .
How you lived and died. . .a ******.

Conor's got P.E. , so his kit is washed,
I've wrapped his butties in foil, so they don't get squashed,
Pork Luncheon meat, in a crispy roll,
And a carton of Ribena, to fill that hole.

Jess starts College at One, so she'll wake at Five - to ,
Cheese and Pickle, will have to do,
I've had my pint of milk, with three Weetabix,
Got a Flagon of Cider, all the boxes are ticked.

A days grafting ahead, out near Billingshurst,
Laying bricks and blocks, building up a thirst,
And home to the hungry, back to the shops,
It's either Chicken Kievs, or half-price lamb chops.

Custard and Pie, hot milky drinks,
Then everyones asleep, except for me, who thinks,
About tomorrows butties, fruit and snacks,
Calories, nutrition, vitamins and facts.

Up at dawn, in an old bobble-hat,
Making food for them all, even the cat,
A tin of Tuna, he's well impressed,
Another flagon of Cider, another sweat-stained vest.

Electricities ,a mystery to me
How a switch can just turn a lamp on,
And I always thought The Periodic Table
Was where my sisters kept their tampons.
I don't understand Higgs Boson ,
Can't fathom out that Hadron Collider,
Or , if an apple a day keeps the doctor away
Why can't fifteen pints of cider?
I was reading a book in the Science Section
And the Librarian gave me such a frown ,
It was called "The History of Helium "
And I couldn't put the f* thing down.

My last pair of boots, sit by the back door,
Faded yellow and black, via asphalt and straw.
They sprawl where their thrown, spread-eagled with socks,
The steel-toe caps are showing, through all the hard knocks.
I've worn out dozens of boots, by the score,
But these are my last, I won't need anymore.
Grafted all my life, sweated and bled,
Wrote a heart-wrenching poem, in a felt-tip of red,
On the back of a letter, from the Hospital, to my lad,
Just a change of appointment, addressed to me, his Dad.
But the words are unreadable, I can only guess at a few,
It was probably a masterpiece , though I haven't a clue.
Written through frustration, written through tears,
At Three in the morning, after too many beers,
About a change of career, getting a worthwhile job,
There must be an easier way, than to work like a dog.
Staying inside in the winter, not out in the fields,
Digging trenches and footings and dying on shields.
Dressing up smartly, using brain not just brawn,
Rising at noon, instead of teeth-chattering dawn.
But I forgot why I wrote it, the mind has many routes,
So I've just been out to buy, a new pair of boots. . . .

This poem is about a night out on the beer which almost went horribly
wrong



I put out my hand and touched the face of God,
. . .bit of a surprise, really, I was expecting my Hod.
Lying on the floor, thinking it was my bed,
Coated in *****, face down, arms spread.
I've ****** my trousers, shat my keks,
A natural reaction, to twenty three pints of Becks.
Stumbling through Cambridge, I can't find the Site,
I know it's around here, first left or third right. . .
Crashing through hedges, I've forgot how to walk,
I can't ask for directions, I'm unable to talk.
So, I'll go no further, here I'll sit tight,
Sneak back to the caravan, when dawn sheds her light.

I didn't feel the cold, the damp creeping through,
Best shirt, Purple Chino's and I'm missing a shoe.
It's my dancing outfit, for impressing and posing,
Ideal for the Nightclub, not alfresco dozing.
The temperature plummets, I'm giving it "Big Zeds"
Dreams of warm women and petal-strewn beds,
Breathing gets shorter, body starts to shut down,
I'm sweating buckets, beginning to drown.

Ronnie, the Night-watchman, knows I must be in trouble,
In an hour and a half, I'm due back on the shovel,
To keep the lads happy, with bricks and fresh Pug
And barrows of concrete, poured into trenches I dug.
Under an Elm Tree, thirty yards from the job,
Ronnie catches sight of this prone Northern yob.
He doesn't panic, just yet, he knows what to do,
He's seen it before, when a body turns blue.
Those First-Aid Classes, when he told us he was fishing. . .
Vital signs are checked, I'm in the Recovery Position.
Ron holds my nose, lifts my head off the floor,
. . .then he kissed me , in a way , that I'd never been kissed before.

For a couple of toffs , I was lagging their loft ,
The size of a Polo Pitch ,
With thick fibreglass , of a " superior class ",
There wasnt a part of me that didnt itch .
Now I had a , full bladder ,
So climbed down the ladder ,
Left the hatch open , like the " barn , I was born in "
Desperate for a *** , though it wasnt through tea ,
I hadnt been offered a cup all morning .
And right there , I saw , a note taped to the door ,
Saying "TRADESMAN - USE THE TOILET DOWNSTAIRS ".
In the natural light, blinking , it got me thinking ,
Is MY ***** , so different to theirs ?
Ignoring the sign, I  crossed over the line
And entered "The Master Bathroom "
It was expensively tiled , a shame to defile,
Full of lotions , potions and perfume.
So I ****** in the sink , gave the mirror a wink
And was up to the loft like a thief .
Back home that night as I turned out the light,
I imagined them brushing their teeth .

Daves trowel has a hickory handle,
With a blade thats broader than most,
It could cover the **** of a Tipperary mare
Going down to the Steeplechase post.

I spin it around in my palm,
the trowel . . . not the horse,
Its old, from a bygone age,
When skill was the poor brother of force.

Now its weatherbeaten and corroded,
Every cut and nick still lingers,
Daves trowel shines as bright as day,
Im talking about my fingers.

My books are piled in the Hallway,
The Girlfriend wants me out,
She can keep all the household cargo
the insecurities and doubt.

I don't care much for chrome Toasters
Just give me my Damon Runyon,
Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway,
Jack Kerouac and Jack London.

Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh
Mayakovsky and Roger McGough,
the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer
Are all yours, I'm ******* off.

Just give me a dozen or so boxes,
Not those ***** looks,
Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer,
All I want, are my books

I have known the snap of the cold,
I have lay, bitten by frost.
Shivering limbs, fold and unfold,
I have fought the fight and lost.

I have limped down a solitary street,
Fingers too numb to count the cost,
The only noise, my stamping feet.
I judge time by the moons height,

The hours, until Dawn brings heat.
I have used the shadows at night,
To hide from eyes, over-bold,
I do not wish to share my plight,

Swaddled in newspapers, my story untold,
It is a dish , best served . . .cold.

My hands have had it, I look at them now,
Holding a pencil, is like strangling a cow.
My thumb and forefinger, seize like a vice,
The other digits join in, they don't need to ask twice.

The scar on my palm was from Ninety-Four,
Club Hammer versus Chisel, lets call it a draw.
The **** on my thigh, shaped like an "M" for Mother,
From when I stepped through, a rusty manhole cover
Thirty stitches later, "Och, keep still Hen . . . . "
I never drank Whiskey on that Site again.

The pain in the elbows, from pushing a wheelbarrow,
Up Bostal Hill, Steyning, that was three foot too narrow,
To get a Dumper through, so we shifted it by hand,
Eight cubic metres of concrete, to the promised land.

The copper complexion, the grey in the hair,
Every crease, every wrinkle, shows the way that we wear.

No medals for those who die on Site,
Just silence, till the Ambulance has gone,
Then, disconnecting like a crumpled kite,
The twisted scaffold, he had fallen from.

No more teasing his taste in Sandwiches,
Or Football team, that lost, again,
Just back to gable-ends steep pitches
As bosses begin, to shift the blame.

After the Funeral, we drank to him,
He, who was one of us,
Those who risk life and limb,
Gathered tightly, into a nucleus.

Hushed, we lifted Whiskey and Ales,
To a life, that rang with hammers and nails.