'Thirty years both mon and boy <br />'Bin bashing buckets into shape, <br />I sin me friends grow old wi' me <br />Within these whitewashed walls. <br /> <br />Me little 'ommer in me 'and <br />Was new when I fust started 'ere, <br />And now it's worn as bad as I <br />Through all those years of toil. <br /> <br />That day I do remember well <br />I turned up at the factory gates, <br />Still wet behind the ears I was <br />But I grew up s' quick. <br /> <br />They took me on and placed me 'ere <br />Then showed me what I 'ad to do, <br />Since then each working day I've come <br />And done this same ol' job. <br /> <br />I never see the light of day <br />Nor feel the sunlight on my face, <br />An inmate trapped within these walls <br />Until the day I die. <br /> <br />Now when I rest me achin' yed <br />I 'ear the clatter as I sleep, <br />There's no escape it follows me <br />Wherever I do go. <br /> <br />Yet if I 'ad me time again <br />I wouldn't change a single jot, <br />So many loffs I've ad in 'ere <br />With all me bestest mates'.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dudley-bucket-basher/
