The Poor Sod

Working another man's field
His only colleague the crawling beetle
His only neighbour the moorside and the stone wall

Blind as the blundering mole
Nothing he did ever came to aught
Couple of times that he stole he was easily caught

Poor as the shivering bird
Seated alone in his cold kitchen
He sings a snatch of an old song which he once heard

Under his thin eiderdown
Thinking of days that have gone before
The night years ago in a town he clung to a young whore

The bramble bush catches his sleeve
The blackthorn catches his cheekbone
When will the North Country leave the poor sod alone?