Ode to Ovaltine



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.