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My Grans House
I think I may have told you once before
Of my grans house but I’m not sure
The old post office it was called
As a child by it I was enthralled
Into the house from the pavement you went
Two up two down but love in every sentiment
The lounge was small I suppose petite
All was kept orderly, clean and neat
Down a hallway to the back
A fire place lead black
Outside the back door a water pump
From which water my grandma would hump
So the kettle on the stove
Could brew tea for all who rove
So you could wash your hands and face
This was not a flashy place
In the hallway I recall
Stood a cupboard six foot tall
Filled with homemade jam and honey
In those days hard up for money
We would bathe in a tin bath
If not you would incur her wrath
Cleanest first dirtiest last
Those were the rules held hard and fast
In the bedrooms a bowl and jug
No sink to hold a plug
Toilet down the orchard in the yard
A gazunder for your needs life was hard
Yet in this little place
This old lady with wrinkled face
Lived to a ripe old age ninety two
I still miss her now it’s true
This house was in Pembridge Herefordshire, she would always give us a threepenny bit to spend in those days that bought quite a bit, lovely lady always loved,.
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