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Hung upon those pearly gatesWhen the fever came, the good Lord wiped his brow, For an honest man, with an honest message for thou, His match-stick men telling the reality of the time, Going about their tasks in the rain, soot and grime, In Pendelbury and Salford, life was harsh, it was cruel, Backbreaking work down the pits supplying industry's fuel, A local artist saw their pain, L.S. Lowry knew what to do, Committing them to canvas, man's anguish is what he knew, He saw it as it was, his paintings were torture to your soul, His canvasses depicted reality highlighting it warts and all, Establishments uncomfortable, as his brushes told the truth, That looks of forlornness amongst the men and working youth, He also caught their simplicity, under skies of foggy grey, With families playing together, sharing delights for a day Matchstick cats and dogs and little matchstick children too, Displayed on that pearly gates are those memories he once drew Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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