Her Mother worked in the mills,
sixpence a day,
A luppie o’ tatties an’ a hauf loaf.
Her Granddad swung great bales of jute and carried them on his shoulders,
he picks up his Granny and swings her round
the soldier boy back from Jordan.
Her Dad lost his fingers in the mills machines,
the war, an evacuee aunt.
A London accent too thick to be clear
her Dundonian as foreign
as an Afghan province,
in the wash house wi’ Granny.