The back windows and gardens say a lot about a house, and it’s origins,

As much as a old matron would tell you, queitly, secretly after a few gins,

There a rows of mavellous underclothes hanging on countless washing poles,

Thousands of commuters know what you wear under your, your suit, dress and clothes.

There may be a woman pinning a sheet to a line with a mouthful of pegs,

Funny winter, ‘long john’s,’ with twisted foot pieces and holes in the legs,

And then there is the dog that has jumped up a snagged a shirt,

Dragging it up and down the garden, chewing it, all through the dirt.

Most are dreary dumps littered with debris of forgotten projects,

The odd bicycle wheel bought for a tanner in the rag markets,

Rusting child prams filling up with each shower or rain,

Best not throw it away it might come in handy again.