Proper Bread
Way back in the 1930’s,
When bread was ‘the staff of life’.
Give us this, our daily bread,
Was more important than having a wife.
With a little butter or margarine,
And perhaps strawberry jam on Sunday,
With a little careful spreading,
It would last up until Monday.
Dripping and lard was an added variety,
Spread on toast in front of the fire,
Sprinkled with salt – it tasted good,
With a toasting fork made out of wire.
The colour of the crust varied a bit,
From brown to very near black,
In fact my old granny might be heard to say,
“They should give that old baker the sack”.
Our bread was delivered by horse and van,
With Harding’s Steam Bakery on the side,
And a row of gold medals to let you know,
That they made their bread with great pride.
The horse was fed there in the street,
From a nose bag made of leather,
We had to admit he ponged a bit,
Particularly in warm weather.
In 1939 when war began,
And some foods were put on ration,
And later on it was decreed,
That all bread would change in fashion.
It changed in colour as time went on,
And the taste caused many a frown,
And instead of being snowy white,
It became a dirty brown.
We longed for that terrible war to end,
When we could all sleep safely in bed,
And for all our brave young men to come home,
And we could all eat ‘PROPER BREAD’.
Poem written by Harry Lawes 2003
Copyright 2003
