Honest Days Gone By

by Robert (Bob) Moore © 1915 The house that I was born in, had a mail slot in the door no mailbox halfway down the street, mail landed on the floor you left your door key hanging there, when you went down the shop you didn’t think of getting robbed, you didn’t need a cop The policeman he walked round the streets, his beat, it was his pride and if a crim was on his turf, he would not get inside the cop was always watching, and his whistle he would blow and police would come from everywhere, and the criminals would know There was nowhere for them to hide a fair cop it would be and you’d come home, reach through the slot pull the string, and get your key It did not even bother you, you did not even see they did their job, your safe and sound and can drink your cup of tea.