In Town Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


Out of work and out of money out of friends that means you betA
Out of firewood togs and tucker out of everything but debtA
And I loathe the barren pavements and the crowds a fellow meetsB
And the maddening repetition of the suffocating streetsB
With their stinks my soul is tainted and the tang is on my tongueC
Of that sour and smoky suburb and the push we're thrown amongC
And I sicken at the corners polished free of paint and mirkC
By the shoulders of the men who're always hanging round for workC
Home good Lord a three roomed hovel 'twixt a puddle and a drainD
In harmonious connection on the left with Liver LaneD
Where a crippled man is dying and a horde of children fightE
And a woman in the horrors howls remorsefully at nightE
It has stables close behind it and an ash heap for a lawnF
And is furnished with the tickets of the things we have in pawnF
And all day the place is haunted by a melancholy crowdG
Who beg everything or borrow and to steal are not too proudG
Through the day come weary women too with famine haunted eyesH
Hawking things that are not wanted things that no one ever buysH
And I hate the prying neighbours in their animal contentI
And the devilish persistence of the man who wants the rentI
I who cared for none and faltered at no work a man might doJ
Felt a fierce delight possess me when the trucks went surging throughJ
When the flood raced in the sluices or the giant gums swung roundK
'Fore my axe and flung their mighty limbs all mangled on the groundK
I who hewed and built and burrowed and who asked no man to giveL
When a strong arm was excuse enough for venturing to liveM
I am creeping by the gutters with a simper and a smirkC
To the Fates in spats and toppers for the privilege of workC
Far away the hills are all aflame the blossom golden fairN
Streams up the gladdened ranges and its scent is everywhereN
And the kiddies of the settlers on the creek are red and sweetO
Whilst my youngsters have the sallowness and savour of the streetO
To escape these endless vaults of brick and pitch a tent out backC
If I get a chance I'll graft until my very sinews crackC
Meanwhile may all the angels up in Paradise look downP
On a man of sin who died not but was damned and sent to townP

Edward Dyson


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