The sun is lovely when it’s out in London but the election is a gruelling, dispiriting experience, even with my efforts to avoid party political broadcasts and any hint of leaders’ debates.
Meanwhile, a poem to remind us of the type of people we are dealing with. Not much else to say this week other than bring on May 7th and I pray to any Gods that will listen that we do not have to suffer another five years of right wing greed-fuelled anti less-than-wealthy people, government.
You poke and prod my pocket
As servants clear your moat,
While I’m wheeling and I’m walking
In a ragged shabby coat.
You snatch and crush our wages
As servants shine your Rolls,
While we’re shouting and we’re swaying
In old seven-hand clothes.
You cling onto your work tests
A posh brat with a dummy.
While we scrape in our gutter
For a glimmer of some honey.
Granddad struggles in the morning,
Whimpers gently towards the night.
Sitting in his own hot shit
‘Cause his care scheme’s not paid right.
What kind of warped out world
Is this one I see unfolding?
Our rulers fudging porno, second homes,
And any chi-chi small holding.
Independent Living Fund
It helps us live full lives –
You want all cripples in a home
Our freedom to deprive.
Hypocrisy, it is on trend
And avarice shouts loud;
Bankers greed, bloats richest schemes.
Tax dodgers smirking proud.
We’re scratching and we’re scraping
At food banks for a crumb.
Recession, it’s a game of blame –
But decry the posturing election scrum.