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.