Poetry

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No room to small for light to fall,in through the
cracks no matter how little,the wick may flicker
through burning quicker,when oil was scarce its
spirit meager,the primus stove went out again,the
little needle to free it then,get lighted up to boil kettle or tea-pot,it all depended what you'd
got,ration book bring to the shop,tea was scarce,
and sugar not got,bread was darker,flour starker
little bits of spud in the mix,lucky to get you're share of six,a peck of coal with some small sticks,
no gasstove then,use firewood well,to boil the kettle,or stewpot then,just one day to recollect when i was five,or six,put some turf in the grate,
fire lit sit down then and get a heat,night comes around,say you're prayers,before you sleep,until at last you be counting sheep,may THE GOOD LORD
THEN ALL US KEEP.
Joe.

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