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Back here, folk stick together, police themselves;
not ‘Coronation Street’, but, now and then,
something more serious, a winter’s tale,
glue holds. They all know you, shop floor, old blokes
in pubs, women with prams, kids kicking stones.
A people’s man, your working job to do,
you wheel your cart to training, how you are
and what you know. The perfect gentle knight,
what will you make of George who plumbs the depths?
Big millions pie in Sky, your star still shines,
that magic photograph your one big splash.
Where factory hooter’s blast is louder than
church bells, a hero’s dowse, life rationed out,
long hours for little pay, makes pipe-dreams count.
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