The contractors came to wreck
And to pillage,
Men with hard hats have demolished
My village.

Men who were swinging great big sledge hammers,
Big yellow’ dozers with hydraulic rammers.
Pushing and pulling and groaning
With strain,
Why do they cause so many
This pain.

They’ve taken my village away
On a lorry.
An act for which they ought
To be sorry!
All that’s left is a memory of
What used to be.
There’s no history left for
Anyone to see.

A church and two chapels, one
In each street.
A pub and a club where
People could meet.
No bathrooms, hot water,
we had outside 100,
I wonder what the young
Of today would do?

A hundred young children
All just like me,
Toast for our breakfast,
Jam for our tea.
We were reared in this village,
With hopes and our dreams,
And now all that’s left,
Is rubble, it seems.

Trousers with patches,
Jerseys with holes,
Doors left on latches,
Shoes with holes in the soles.
But happy we were,
In those long far-off days,
In a warm, friendly village,
With warm, friendly ways.

The men with hard hats,
and the’ dozers have gone,
I wonder if they know what
They’ve done.
To them it’s a job,
They don’t really care,
They’ve taken my village,
And left the land bare.

I know someone ought to be sorry,
For taking my village away
On a lorry.

Many Thanks to John Bourne for sharing is wonderful poem.

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