Compositors A and B

I suppose they could have been good friends,Or simply work mates, as they settled downTo set yet another play in that worldOf the Tudors we think we know.The scholars tell us they had Titus AndronicusUnder their belt when for the first timeThe Merchant of Venice was deliveredTo their door to turn into a quarto.But no one can tell us what these two gentsThought as they took up their composing sticksOn a morning after their usual chit chat.The warp and weft of their lives no doubt:Their wives, mates, aches and pains, fightsDown the taverns and whores in the Stews.Or maybe they had heard of yet anotherPriest hauled out from a premature tomb.Or perhaps, when a stick held ‘Shylock’,Mr. A guessed that here was a stickTo punish the wolf-like Jews . . .

The Yorkshire Post was spread out on aCase of type before the working day.A few early birds were picking the crumbsOf news in the gloom as they chattered awayAnd savaged the goal-starved team orThe council fat with inept losers.And even when ships loaded with missilesSteamed slowly towards Cuba or ArmageddonA row began about the local Pakis.And still in the dreaming sixties, when EnochLanded his blow below the beltTempers flared when one announced:A black had applied to join the firm –For some, desperate, dark, and threatening news.