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My grandfather would sip his pint,
and talk of Keir Hardie,
George Lansbury,
a voice for the working poor.
And the tablecloth shook like a banner.
My father would stir his mug of tea,
and talk of Atlee and Bevan,
Beveridge,
the birth of a Welfare State.
And the tablecloth shook like a banner.
I kept quiet:
who was there for me to speak of?
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