Working-class and Teachers

I'm working-class and proud of it
grew up in the damp shadows of fish factories
we played in grimy streets the sun was
the lamplight after six
and always the persistent drizzle and mist.
School was not much our teacher disliked us
thought to teach us was a waste of time.
By luck, by pluck and ******* stubbornness I got out
saved by the sea breeze I had to be
my own teacher who was stern but not arrogant.
These half- baked teacher they didn't know
Cuba and the sand made in heaven, little bureaucrat
thinking they were intellectuals
I'm still working-class, but my interest is not the same
It has broken down the wall of misery but
The roots are with me I know where I came from