In them days, y'could walk the streets, and needn't feel afraid;
Our Eileen did it reg'lar, that's how us rent got paid.

We used to foller t'milkman's 'orse, wheerever t'milkman took it
And when it did its doin's we'd collect 'em in a bucket.
Me Grandad used to put 'em on 'is rhubarb fer to force it
But we all stuck to custard - who wants pie as tastes of horse shit?

Aye, Frider neet wor bath neet, when me Grandad sat in t'tub
While me Granma knelt in front o't range and gev 'is back a scrub;
'Cos bathin' were a luxury, each penny 'ad ter matter,
An' sometimes, as a special treat, she'd fill it up wi' watter.

We well knew t'taste o' poverty, each year we gorrin deeper;
And t'dog we 'ad were black 'n' white 'cos t'licence wo'ked aht cheaper.
We'd nuthin' left ter pay fer food (norafter t'booze 'n' t'fags)
An' when us refuse waggon called, we ordered seven bags.
  Well, me Grandad isn't wi' us nah, he's left this life o'pain;
(He got eight draws on t'treble chance and buggered off to Spain.)
But me Granma's lookin' dahn on us, of that ah' can be certain;
She lives in t'igh-rise ovver t'road and watches us through t'curtain.

Well, they pulled down all us houses, and they pulled down twenty-nine;
They pulled down our Eileen's knickers (they were hanging out on t'line);
Our home is on'y rubble now, no plaque to mark the spot,
But if they'd left it up to me - I'D BOMB THE CHUFFIN LOT.

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