Little Rory looks back begging for one final show of emotion.
He wills them to call him but every step seals his fate.
He feels the irreconcilable difference grow and climb within him,
Feeling it belch up a lecherous leer.
He closes on the outside world captivated by its increase in size,
From a damp 2 up 2 down to a tolerance far beyond him.
Far beyond his young comprehension - At 13 he is too young.
His eyes and mouth open wide in respect to the market place,
Filled with it's stripes and bright coloured ties.
He follows generations obeying the same habits and paths.
Breeding stock for the pits; animals.

But Rory sees more from eyes on fire.
He has a lust to learn, an ability to question.
He possesses a skill able to craft alphabetical pictures,
Letter shaped people scripting a play in a neon gothic style.
Turning water into ink and bread into paper he feeds our imagination.
High fiber addictive nourishments to our minds and souls.
A shining attraction impossible to lay aside till all knowledge extracted.
Respect for tradition and his own needs battle for his soul and tears roll.

The crossroads comes into view.
Confused images flash in and out of his perspective,
Trailing foul tasting vapours, clouding his dreams,
Constantly hiding his parents selfish expectations.
"Get a trade ma son"
"Yer the heid o' the family noo"
"Yer fathers no able and we need the money"
Brain washing him with their selfish socialistic pride,
They play on his love for them and succeed as he turns left on to coal wynd.

From here on it is downhill to the Face.
Ashamed eyes peer through lace curtains in a realisation that,
Once again social and domestic needs rob us of one,
Such as Larkins or Williams.
They do not see or will not see that they steal an art form so rare,
Which today is so much need as a preacher or teacher.
The loss should weigh heavy on us all on the conscience of mankind.
For we close our eyes as the elite silver spoons are allowed
To shine brighter than the artistic sows ear kept down by class.