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Hi. My name is Terry Trainor and I write poems.
Many many years ago the news ripped through the London Workhouses,
Through all Bethnel-green, Spitalfields and through the Minories,
Along Tower-hill and up to Shoreditch and Clerkenwell,
To the very purlieus of the Seven Dials, and across the water in Southwark,
Important news spread from ear to ear, overheard in chop houses, and cabs,
Blackberries are ripe, and there are mushrooms in the forest turf.
Like an electric thrill, it has darted far and wide, high and low,
In the great workshops, whether sweating over a hot iron, or folding,
Steaming dye-houses and hatteries or darting the shuttle amongst silken threads,
The bread moulders, or makers of coffins for the dead, or their nails,
To the farmers, the boys that roam the streets, and the hags in alleys,
Everywhere there is just one thought, the blackberries are ripe.