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We Were Expendable

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no more rush for the factory gates

or bleary welcomes after whistle led race

no longer the shouts of “what shift you on mate?”

and befuddled replies “earlies, no, lates!”

the comforting throng of familial mass

at the end of each day that held no disgrace

when a days hard work meant a days earned pay

something they somehow forgot to replace

as our livelihoods fled to cheaper climes

and our citadels of labour fell rotting, debased

◄ Ghosts

Devon ►

Comments

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Lynn Dye

Thu 23rd Aug 2012 19:31

I like this poem, Paul, and agree with the sentiment, good title too that almost says it all really.

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