Robert J Moore Poet Rhyme

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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.

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