Mr Bounderby is Alive (Hard Times)

In one foul swoop, several million people lose twenty pounds

from their weekly income with cries of this was always bound

to happen, as it was only ever a temporary solution to help

the less well off through the struggle of the pandemic.

Well I have news for the buffoon who runs the show;

the struggle is here and not planning to lessen or go.


Well Mr Jonson, how can you look yourself in the mirror,

knowing that many a mum or dad will cry a river of tears,

wondering how they will manage to eat AND heat?

Scum is too good a word; scum can be removed with a cloth,

whereas your stench is here for at least two more years.

You have disenfranchised the powerless, in the name of Brexit .


Taking my spoonful of Manuka, to prevent infection, I realise-

although not my intention-this costs more than twenty pounds.

That sum of money, less than your daily meal allowance, is vital

to feed and heat a family that can’t afford holidays every month.

They don’t have pals with villas, or peerages to give out, that gets

their flats decorated and their coffers full. Their bank is the food bank.


So I ask you prime minister, what will you do to make amends to

the less fortunate of the country, apart from telling them to ask friends,

family and the community to help? They need that paltry amount to

merely survive-to prevent Ricketts and scurvy and dental decay-

The poor think of calories, not five fruits and veg a day.


Can I ask how much the treasury has given to the friends of the tories

to move to tax havens? While millions wonder how to heat their homes,

I hear the echos of, ‘Give the dog a bone.’ I wonder how far you intend to go,

in your bid to make being wealthy pay, let them put it away for a rainy day.

Your cabal of cronies, none of whom have a spine, to oppose or object; when

it is time to vote with the government they stand in line-the ayes have it again

gif

5 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

The demise of spaffer is a long haul; he doesn’t want to go at all. No longer in number ten, he can’t accept he’s a has been. Squatting at Chequers with all his pals, arranging titles to give them all

They’ll be here today, better get to work. Floors cleaned, beds made up; I can’t remember when I last worked so hard, for free-really, it not like me. Time to stop, have a cuppa, have a pee. The music

Hot June, hip Paris, hurrying and harassed, as we run to board the cramped and crushing metro carriage. And then, a voice from behind-‘Excuse me sir, but would you like to sit here? You look tired, an