I knew the Braithwaite boy at school;

I knew him when he started work.

He bagged fruit at the market stall:

Quite slow, but never one to shirk.

 

His parents lived beside the park;

They were the type to put on airs.

They saw him as an office clerk

Or in the city selling shares.

 

But he was quiet, often teased,

And ready to accept his place;

The customers seemed rather pleased

With his politeness and his grace.

 

Though as he drifts past pension age,

His contribution may seem small,

A life’s contentment will assuage

The advent of its tallest wall.