There used to be a butcher’s shop, there used to be a baker’s,
There used to be a florist’s right beside the undertaker’s.
The patient shoppers chatted as they queued to fill their baskets,
But no one cared to linger near the mortuary caskets.
There used to be a grocery that sold delicious gammon;
A fishmonger’s with stands of herring, halibut and salmon;
A sweetshop where the little kids would splurge their pocket-money,
And parents bought them once a year a chocolate Easter bunny;
A laundry where the shirts were washed and pressed and folded neatly;
A barber’s shop that also sold “weekenders” most discreetly;
A dairy shop with cream and new-laid eggs and massive cheeses;
A joke-shop selling plastic turds and other jolly wheezes.
Now, every shop is boarded up where customers once flowed;
They’ve all been snaffled by the supermarket down the road.
Only the undertaker’s left to gain his daily bread -
He makes a decent living, though his customers are dead.
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