Five years ago on Friday last, old Maggie Johnston rose
and it took three-quarters of an hour to put on her Sunday clothes.
There was no need to light the fire as was her usual way
for this, the best day of the week was Maggie’s pension day.
And it’s little things that mean a lot, when you’re 80, life’s like that
with just a cat for company in a Corporation flat.
And the flight of stairs you have to climb isn’t that high anyway
when you can walk and meet and talk on Friday pension day.
The young thugs jumped on Maggie as she stopped to cross the street
for old folk are easy pickings, they’re feeble and they’re weak.
Her faded leather handbag held her purse and twenty pounds
and was ripped from Maggie’s fingers as she lay there on the ground.
As tears of rage and terror flooded Maggie’s age-dimmed eyes
there was no-one stopped to help her or heed her feeble cries.
And it wasn’t just her money that the muggers took away
but Maggie’s pride and love of life on Friday, pension day.
Now from that day five years ago Maggie Johnston lives in fear
and she stares from her barred windows when strangers venture near.
And Friday is the only time she goes outside the door
only hunger can cause Maggie to go walking anymore.
For Maggie sees the shadows in the sunshine on the street
and Maggie knows the bitterness of old age and defeat.
For Maggie’s independence was the price she had to pay
Another inner city victim one Friday pension day.
Five years ago on Friday last, Old Maggie Johnston rose............