Mr George once lived in a large Georgian house , before the factory’s were built In this Surbiton town . Back for tea at seven every night , after discussins with the wise the bad and the good .
But for Mr George and his beautiful wife , and his clockwork life , in his well to do manor soon packed their bags , to leave their new home With all their clocks on carts they all moved away , With a clipperty clop and a bag of hay , goodbye to Georgian Town as they moved far far away .
Soon the houses came and the factories and railways too so the little house saw , Instead of green trees all around , coal and industry were its only sound . Gone were the cows and fields of green , now new houses were built , out of his window now were seen . For a King had died and time moved on .
And so the landowner subletted the little house , to many families when the foremen moved out .
And more and more what ever the cost , and so our little house was feeling quite lost .
The noise of the factory smelt iron and Cole , the thick black smoke. The many people who came and went , and no one cared for the stench and the mud , that was left .
One privy now for twenty or more , all crying and screaming on his now filthy floor .
So the rats and vermin moved in as well , and how he remembed his happy home , of mr George a family man with his clocks and wife , and his o so happy life .