A Job Lot of Poems about Working Life; ++ POETRY EXTRA ++

Coventry Evening Telegraph (England), October 11, 2008 | Go to article overview
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A Job Lot of Poems about Working Life; ++ POETRY EXTRA ++


IT WAS National Poetry Day on Thursday and we asked for your verses on this year's theme of "work".

The day encouraged young and old to enjoy poetry and also to have a go at writing their own poems.

We had a huge response, so today we are printing more of your poems on all kinds of work - from classroom to factory floor, from building site to office cubicle.

A DAY ON THE "HERALD" TRACK IN THE CAR ASSEMBLY HALL AT CANLEY ALARM clock rings; jump out of bed, Wash and shave before I'm fed.

Jump on bike and off we go, First mile fast, second mile slow.

Clocking on with minute to spare, Overalls zipped, put cap on hair.

I'm ready for the day ahead, Fifteen an hour the foreman said.

First car down is mine to do, I'm one of five in "half shaft" crew.

A Triumph Herald coloured green, First one on track I've ever seen.

Schedule read; half shafts prepared, I do my job, in zone that's shared, By five of us; we must not stray, Into the next operations bay.

The track moves fast, sometimes it jolts, Makes life hard putting nuts on bolts.

Lunchtime comes, half-an-hour we've got, We eat, we drink and laugh a lot.

Clock on again; the starting bell, Makes sure we make more cars to sell.

At four o'clock it's "coats on lads", It's time for home; to mums and dads.

A good day's work we leave with sorrow, Pleased as "punch" to do the same tomorrow.

Fred (Gus) Garrood, Steeplefield Road, Coundon.

FORKLIFT TRUCK DRIVER ON the lorries the pallets go, And this job is done in rain, sun, and snow.

The pallets with the fork lift are skilfully laid, On this job you cannot be afraid.

The bins are cleared of all it's waste, And this job is done in such a haste.

Then the waste in the skip does go, Which goes around with a steady flow.

And through all the stress and all the strife, This is the forklift truck driver's working life.

Cherie Lisa Starkey, Birmingham.

WORK THE accountant goes off to work, walking at a jaunty angle, His trousers pressed really sharply as if they've been in the mangle.

An umbrella over his arm, which causes the odd sniggers, He doesn't really give a care as his head is full of figures.

The plumber drives his van to work; will he work late... perhaps?

It all depends if he's had enough of fixing washers and taps.

The surveyor does the measuring on the plot of land, To make sure he gets it right, the camera is at hand.

The butcher chops the meat with his mighty chopper, We look askance at his hand in case he comes a cropper.

The grocer in the old days would cut the cheese and butter, "Bread has gone up a half-penny", the customers would mutter, The tailor sits a sewing; he is what you'd call bespoke, In fact he is quite friendly and a real nice bloke.

The doctor takes your pulse and listens to your ills, You are not with him very long, but he gives you a box of pills.

The postman with his bag of post, delivering rain or shine, The post he delivers next door; is it yours or mine?

To all the workers everywhere, you are doing a grand job, Going out daily - to earn a few more bob.

Valerie Cross, Fieldview Close, Exhall.

THE CASUAL WORKER FIVE years ago I sat at home, Considering what to do, Shall I dig the garden, Or paint a wall or two?

So I made myself a cup of tea, And gave the dog a pat, When a note came through the letter box, And landed on the mat.

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