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 .
