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.

The Lung.

The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst  arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung,  the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.

Not but he's, but butties, chip butties, egg butties, cheese ham and spam butties,

they always taste to me of sometime back in sixty-three when I was seven, such a lucky lad to have such a marvellous dad who knew exactly how to do a buttie.

They call them common now
food for the working class
well
they can kiss my ***
they taste like the bread of heaven
to me.

garage tools
orbital sander sanding away
big it up for the orbital sander
getting sand on now now now
hear the orbital sander sand away

orbital sander
orbital sander
orbital sander
sand sand sand!

like his mate the orbital grinder
give it a good grind
grind away on the go
watch that baby grind away

orbital grinder
orbital grinder
orbital grinder
grind grind grind!

hydraulic ramp going up and down
no car is too heavy
fantastic hydraulics
touch of a button up down up down

hydraulic ramp
hydraulic ramp
hydraulic ramp
lift lift lift!

laser gig perfectly aligned
laser beam on target
crash damage repair perfection
laser accuracy beyond compare

laser gig
laser gig
laser gig
laser laser laser!

boss is doing a ******* eppy
the tech is too reliable
he bosses and bullies
his young apprentices about

sweep the floor
male the brews
fetch the butties
you ****** slaves
boss boss boss!

Unstable rabble
ill in mind, body and soul
unfulfilled and desperately unhappy
fearful always, insecure, lacking and inadequate
skeletons in cupboards, shaming secrets hidden aplenty
false, fake, white-washed and all semblance soulless nonentities
vacuous sad pathetic weak and academically challenged majority
ignorant belligerent bellicose cowards, drunkards n mob shysters

rise, rise. rise
jump, jump. jump
do the twist n put the boot in

stand up and bellow
you can't loose your chains
your self loathing is too great
your shame and pains hurt all the time
you are reminded of your insignificance always
your helplessness and your weaknesses shames you
you always have to fake it, scrape, beg, borrow and steal
the aggrieved spectators as talents, wealth and the ritzy drive past

rise, rise, rise
jump, jump, jump
do the locomotion and spread the ****

scream and shout
hurl slander and lies
fight like cowards and bully
get badass and wicked and mean
get ****** angry and get ****** even
leave your bacon butties and fry the greedy pigs
forget your chips and come chip the brains of the tyrants hogs
put down those pints and lets keep this momentum of hate alive so

rise, rise, rise
jump, jump, jump
do the stoning and lets move like Jagger

Gone are the glory days of jam butties
when marmalade was shredded gold
and spam pretended to be ham
and plum jam tested for a cold.

The wireless was our window on the world.
The Weekly News and Guardian
gave local news, views and reviews.
Street chatter made stories that much fatter.

That world now reappears to me.
But in it I take no part.
No good, no bad, no clumsy me,
no touch, no sound, no sacred heart-to-heart.

I was brought up on a council estate,
I had 53 aunty's and I was everyones mate,
We played out till dark or till we felt hunger,
We'd beg mum or dad to let us play longer,
I had holes in me shoes but they made me run faster,
I had national health glasses held together with plaster,
Dried snot on me face mixed in with the dirt,
Corporation pop stains all over me skirt,
But I was happy,
Go of for the day with butties of jam,
If we where lucky, some biscuits of me mam,
An old fairy liquid bottle full of cold water,
There's one we'd always chase, but never ever caught her,
We'd make dens in the woods from old boxes and trays,
Be princesses in a castle, oh what joyful days,
We'd sit in the field, making daisy chains,
Play rounders and hido, and loads of games,
Run to the mobile for a 10p mix of sweets,
Sit on the curly wall at the bottom of our street,
Pinch a bunch of flowers from St Gregs ground,
And say to mum "honestly they where found",
Get grounded for giving cheek or answering back,
Walked along the ralla, the old train track,
Wait for the icey, all of us in drones,
To ask him politely for any stale cones,
Played out in the rain, got soaked through and through,
Just some of the things we used to do,
In those endless summers of my past,
That have gone far to fast,
But they have made me who I am now,
A ****** of Mother and a miserable cow.
Haha joking,
I'm proud of my childhood, I was very lucky.