Oh, those fantasy days

Of narrow houses, long gardens,

Backing on to the railway line,

Where passengers marvelled

At the symmetry of washing,

Doing its flappy each-way act.

The vegetable patches

Gobbled up the dust and grime,

And smiles were extracted

From the school of hard knocks.

At sunset, big, proud men

Would contemplate their lot,

And bow sun-fired heads

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