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His wife pours his tea from a pot

  As George sits in his flat,

Cursing his meagre sullied lot,

  Kicking away his cat.


The 'phone box top of the street is bust;

  He can't afford his own.

When he's slowly eaten his last crust,

  He'll shamble into town.


Rising above the stench and scrawls

  Like mice in the night,

Faint shouts slip under doors from brawls,

  Unravelling echoes unknit.


Once out in the open air and cold,

  He sees the cars go by

And pubs with open doors to cajole.

  To pass them by he'll try.


Plastic cars and shops will glitter

  Against the white cold faceless clouds,

Alone amongst them George is bitter.

  The grey choking mist enshrouds.


In the job shop he teems with hope.

  Uneasy shuffles meet.

Men and boys from home elope.

  Like starlings, crusts they eat.


Swaying with lost and aimless masses,

  George scours it board by board,

Then with a number, frowning, passes

  Reception desks ignored.


He gets an interview to-morrow.

  Outside, the streets share his pleasure.

The rain has passed like George's sorrow,

  Leaving a merry treasure.


He leers through windows shiny new:

  A trim video, so soon,

His to control for a few

  Weeks of labour and then the boon.


The girls were prettier; the men were smiling.

  He walked on hope and air.

Wouldn't ominous debts piling

  Be cleared without care?



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