The poem
Grimy men with picks and shovels Who in darkness sweat unseen, Climb from out your lousy hovels, Build a palace for the Queen; Praise the powers that be for giving You a chance to make a living.
Yet it would be better far Could you build with cosy lure Skyey tenements where are Rabbit-warrens of the poor; With a hope bright as a gem Some day you might live in them.
Could the Queen just say: 'A score Of rich palaces have I. Do not make me any more,-- Raise a hostel heaven-high; House the hundreds who have need, To their misery give heed.'
Could she make this gesture fine To the pit where labour grovels, Mother hearts would cease to pine, Weary men would wave their shovels. All would cry with hope serene: 'Little children, bless the Queen!'