A child was born

A child
A baby truthfully
Kind of living with the fright
Having to leave his rickety bed
In the dead of night
Behind his fathers barrow
Grit cutting his toes
No food really to speak of
With the problems that does pose

Sorting bricks
Re-stacking them
Dusty wretched bricks
Broken one heap
Whole another
What we do we reap
Children mostly babies
Working all the day
For nothing just
Sore hands and feet
And a back too
Many say

Limping back behind the barrow
Weary as can be
Callow and unfallen
Exhausted yes truly
The drudgery of being
Dark sweat on his brow
Gruelling punishing
Burdensome
Asking quietly how

And why he has to work all day
The grind the slog the pain
The bricks get heavier
His hands get sore
Really in the main
There is no respite
And his chore
Grows harder by the day
Every nerve and every sinew
Hurts……