For Duncan Wyllie <br />Who suggest I write this in a comment he once made. <br /> <br />Back in the 1800’s <br />in a large city in England <br />there lived a seven year old <br />and I will call him Tarn. <br />His hair was matted with soot, <br />his face and hands were black. <br />His clothes were old and cast offs <br />and didn’t fit too well. <br />His trousers had holes in the knees <br />and the elbows of his shirt were gone. <br />His skin was black from head to foot <br />from climbing chimneys <br />each and everyday. <br />He could work sometimes sixteen hours <br />before he finished for the day. <br />He never got educated, <br />nor did he play with friends. <br />He had no childhood <br />for as soon as he was old enough <br />to walk and climb out to work he had to go <br />to earn money to be fed. <br />There were no luxuries that we enjoy today. <br />Everyday you worked from dawn to dusk. <br />He didn’t smile or laugh, <br />just scampered up and down chimneys <br />to clean the soot away. <br />On one fateful day he found himself <br />wedged and couldn’t move. <br />No one heard his cries, <br />or if they did, they just ignored them. <br />Day after day, he struggled to get free <br />and all the time getting weaker and weaker. <br />He was soon forgotten about <br />and slowly his life expired. <br />He must have died in agony <br />more than most of us will ever know. <br />His body lay there for over a hundred years <br />before it was discovered by accident <br />when they renovated the old house.<br /><br />David Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-little-chimney-sweep/
