Sailing up and down the Great Medway,
delivering coal, iron and hops,
with no delay.
Though a bag or two may drop
we'll keep sailing up that Great Medway

The chimneys sighed;
A silent suicide

Nearby cemetery - familiar
To villagers
Enslaved to the wage
Engraved to the plague

Green, green grass of home
Rolling Downs goes on and on
Behind the place, I call home.

Home knows nothing
Rotting 4th July bunting
Is so grostesque
A papermill not that picturesque

Distant ships
Dockyard mist
Churchyard steeples
Choir of the working people
Amongst tenements, needles
Clocking their hours
Drinking their giro

A class of our own
A class we were born

For a future by the clocktower.