Jake Thackray The Poor Sod
Working another man's field,
His only colleague the crawling beetle,
His only neighbour the moorside and the stone wall.
Blind as the blundering mole,
Nothing he did ever came to aught;
Couple of times that he stole he was easily caught.
Poor as the shivering bird,
Seated alone in his cold kitchen
He sings a snatch of an old song which he once heard.
Under his thin eiderdown
Thinking of days that have gone before:
The night years ago in a town he clung to a young whore.
The bramble bush catches his sleeve,
The blackthorn catches his cheekbone;
When will the North Country leave the poor sod alone?
