'Thirty years both mon and boy
'Bin bashing buckets into shape,
I sin me friends grow old wi' me
Within these whitewashed walls.

Me little 'ommer in me 'and
Was new when I fust started 'ere,
And now it's worn as bad as I
Through all those years of toil.

That day I do remember well
I turned up at the factory gates,
Still wet behind the ears I was
But I grew up s' quick.

They took me on and placed me 'ere
Then showed me what I 'ad to do,
Since then each working day I've come
And done this same ol' job.

I never see the light of day
Nor feel the sunlight on my face,
An inmate trapped within these walls
Until the day I die.

Now when I rest me achin' yed
I 'ear the clatter as I sleep,
There's no escape it follows me
Wherever I do go.

Yet if I 'ad me time again
I wouldn't change a single jot,
So many loffs I've ad in 'ere
With all me bestest mates'.

ANDREW BLAKEMORE

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dudley-bucket-basher/