Thursday, 30 June 2011


When you could see the ribs of the poor
and the fat man watered their beer.
You knew who got exploited
You knew who to pity or fear.

The waif who was wan with rickety knees,
the rich man deaf to his desperate pleas,
died of consumption or killed at the loom.
Nothing marked his pauper tomb.

Now we have underprivileged
who are fat and spotty and rude.
While the super rich are toned and trim,
helping the starving grow food.

An oil rich man with a yacht or two
and a football club for fun
is an easy shot for the feckless lot
who think they have been hard done.

The fat cats they say are parasites
bloated on ill earned gains,
but who is tied to their Blackberry
and who on a couch just lays?

A thirty stone woman
wheezes and pants
the fifty hard yards
to the pub.

There she labours through
five portions a day
of alcohol, burger, nicotine, pizza
and pure, pure ecstasy.

Her loutish lover leers
through smack wracked, bloodshot eyes
at the writhing teenage arse
framed by a thin black thong.

Her blotchy beau with spike pierced cheeks
leaps to honour's cause.
He and Mr Stanley
will carve respect on cheeky jaws.

Through blood and screams the medics work
to save these wasted lives.
Their patients kick and shout abuse
at those who treat their wounds.

Like education, that they valued,
free health care is their right.
They use it every weekend
after drinking through the night.

The woman lurches homeward
to her seven dadless kids.
They have their chips and Gameboy
and the freedom of the streets.

Just a normal family
struggling through life.
The fat cats are just ignorant
of the poor who have such strife.

1 comment:

  1. Can we have a separate poets corner?