Everyday he'd turn up
and sweep
the turnings on the factory
floor to piles
and no-one new his name.
They'd call him Jud,
or little Jud.
They thought he were Jud's
son, but he weren't.
He didn't even know a Jud.
One day, he comes in
all quiet
and gets about his sweeping.
The missus no-one knew he had
had lost the bairn.
Afterwards they called him nowt.
Cut a wide berth
round the machines to avoid
conversation.
Nothing awkward like. Just work.
At the Christmas do he didn't show.
Sent a photograph
two days later from Magaluf
and a bottle of champagne,
offering his resignation.
A bottle of champagne
for thirteen men?
We barely got a thimble each
the spawny get.
Jud. Ungrateful sod.
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