I wrote this while working in a factory in Broadheath, Altrincham in 1989. I couldn’t believe that gritty, oily, noisy world still existed and wanted to describe it in verse.
Working in a factory, compressed air and oil
Grey old men, unsmiling faces, unhappy in their toil
Far away from compact discs and things that make life pleasant
Dangerous hissing machinery worked by brain-dead peasants
They’ll get their pittance owed to them on Thursday afternoon
Handed out by a dark-suited man in a gloomy little room
Then empty heads but smiling faces they race down to the pub
And drink a pint or twenty then the chippy for some grub
Monday morning rounds them up, they punch their clockcards “in”
Two days of beer went bloody quick says one in the deafening din
I know these things because I’ve seen them a life without thought or cheer
I ask myself each morning, what the hell am I doing here?