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Poem	THREE tailors of Tooley Street wrote: We, the People. The names are forgotten. It is a joke in ghosts. Cutters or bushelmen or armhole basters, they sat cross-legged stitching, snatched at scissors, stole each other thimbles. Cross-legged, working for wages, joking each other as misfits cut from the cloth of a Master Tailor, they sat and spoke their thoughts of the glory of The People, they met after work and drank beer to The People. Faded off into the twilights the names are forgotten. It is a joke in ghosts. Let it ride. They wrote: We, The People.
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