Between the embanked rail line
And slow canal was Ovaltine.
Who turned out drink in orange tins
Which pictured kids with sleepy grins.
Where eggs and malted milk combined
To make a drink for old bed time,
Now tower flats with tinted glaze
And balconys with wrought iron rails
The packing hall has long since gone
In place are residential homes.
No work, not near, so they must drive
When once it’s here that they would strive.
Where the boiler once was found
They park their cars safe underground.
On wharf where barges used to crowd
A sign says “mooring not allowed”
Ovaltine’s factory facade stands
An icon to those workers hands.
But if deserved why wipe away
Its very soul? It should have stayed.