Tommy and the Common Five-Eighters
Peter Raynard

Some of us are washer-women wet-nurse
birth mothers of a nation of shopkeepers,
fitters and lifters. Smothered suffragettes
stuffed down the back of the Pankhursts’ sofa.

Some of us are trench-foot perfect-fit
coffin fodder taken in by the pointed finger
of men bred from a moustache to dig
a scar down France to bury ourselves in.

Some of us march from Jarrow for the jobs
of those who survive with hats and caps
in hands, dead men who fell again in Spain,
then one year on return as common
five-eighters in uniform size to beat
the Germans second time around, then on
to Seoul, to Suez, to Aden and a British flag
gravestone memorial with an empty can of Stella
& Vodka miniature salute to Afghanistan, Iraq, & Woolwich.

Some of us are Mothers Against Murder
and Aggression, against a change in benefits,
for a change in child support from Fathers
for Justice, for families without two-up
two-down parents, where there is fighting
in the pockets of lawyers and the social.

Some of us work black hole hours in pits,
on sites, warehouses and factories doing
much more work than eight hours a day.
A weakling won’t last long before becoming
your average Joe, man on the street, freezing
fucking cold over a brazier, with rolled up fingers
watching scabs’ shadows pass through bus windows.

Some of us are pork pie pasty-faced full English
no time for breakfasts, with cash in hand-over-fist
without question, singing knees up Mother Brown’s
sweet and sour bingo wings, doing the Lambeth
Walk-the-talk in training sessions with benefit lessons
screened on CCTV for viewing by fat twats in stained ties.

Some of us are a back draft rush of colonial need,
blown in from the shanties and fields, away from
the famine, war and poverty, to plant seeds
on the buses, wards, and shop corners of peoples’ minds.

Some of us come from a different kind of estate,
born in a crib that turns graves end, out east
where the pearls of history garnish clothes
caps and our favourite philosopher is Kant.

Some of us are Grunswick, Orgreave, Tottenham,
Toxteth, Brixton, made in Dagenham, the horror
stories and fairy tales of brass bands, ballet dancers,
strippers and trainspotters, loan sharks
with borstal knuckles dotted ACAB, that can’t
be a rhyme scheme & I’m the Daddy now, cunt.

Some of us are blue collared what time
do you call this? Dinner’s in the doghouse!
with a belly like a party seven, and lungs
defunct as an all-out strike. We turn white
collar for Sunday Mass, the blood of Christ,
the pub, a crisp burnt roast, slippers and a kip,
then a string vest costume drama with a three bar fire.

Then it’s Monday and work, & there’s Tommy
head as heavy as an elephant’s coffin, choking
for a smoke and a trap to empty himself in.
He just thanks fuck he’s still got Page 3,
that page at the start of a book he can read
in the bog in peace as the intestines
of industry grind away inside him.

Peter Raynard is a poet, playwright and editor. His poems have appeared in South Bank Poetry, the CALM magazine, New Left Project, Nutshells and Nuggets, and the Stare’s Nest. He is editor of Proletarian Poetry which features poems of working class lives: www.proletarianpoetry.com

Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter. Please include a short, third-person biography and author photo with all submissions: wveditor@gmail.com

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