Broad back, bloke’s haircut, Argos gold at her throat,
Tap room tan, football manager’s coat,
The only stain on her lips comes from cigarette smoke,
A no nonsense wife of a no nonsense bloke.
A smile as infrequent as Sunday hours buses,
Refuses to stand for airs, graces or fusses,
No tactical corsets can lend her a figure,
Greggs pasties ensure that she’ll only get bigger.
The Duchess, Grand matriarch, mother to dozens,
Their children, grand children, their nephews and cousins,
Get a clip round the ear, a spit wash and some sweets,
And a large sausage roll filled with mystery meats.
She cleans on a Tuesday and Thursday at schools,
The kids are all scared cos she don’t suffer fools,
In a chequered blue tabard she mops lino flooring,
Without the least notion such tasks are dead boring.
She’s a cleaner, was born one, will die one as well,
Has genetically changed to put up with the Hell,
an acceptance of drudgery and brain disengage,
Lets her keep scrubbing toilets on minimum wage.
A bargain bin delver, A Poundland prowler,
A Smart Price smiler, a brand name scowler,
On weekends she’s shopping at Leeds Indoor Market,
No cash for a car, besides, nowhere to park it.
The number four bendy bus suits her just fine,
Hauling two dozen bog rolls for one ninety nine,
Some dented tinned stew, powdered mash and dried peas,
And other cheap bits for the kids weekday teas.
And after an hour of shaking and stress,
On the crowded and rattly peasant express,
She calmly climbs off and she gets out her fags,
Before shuffling homewards down laden with bags.
Recessions, depressions and financial crunches,
Might impact on what she makes kids for their lunches,
But tough as old boots she will weather the worst,
As long as she has a quick B&H first.