For anyone who may be interested there is an earlier companion piece, more political than social called simply ‘The Working Class”.
Another dawn breaks over these northern towns,
and folk awake all tangled up in bed sheet knots,
door step milk fetched in tartan dressing gowns,
as sunlight’s insipid fingers brush chimney pots
and the cobbles ring with cheery morning greets
from factory working Tykes in boots and flat cap,
stood on pristine steps of brick terraced streets,
in their hands flasks of sweet tea and tins of Snap.
Row on Row of red houses and stone flagged walks
where proud lasses clean their bright colour doors,
no dawdling allowed but endless street corner talks,
And wake week they’ll leave to picnic on the moors,
friends and family both the same, breathe virgin air,
clobbered out in their best away from factory smoke,
laughing and singing, beer and tall tales all can share,
“we may be poor but we’re happy” they always joke.