Post Brexit Britain-the land of the haves and have-nots

Hans Christian Anderson is still as relevant today;

the Emperor’s clothes are still invisible-non existent.

How many times do we have to hear the clap trap of those in power;

levelling up society, as they distribute the country’s wealth to cronies?

Five thousand pounds Stirling-that’s the worth of an MP’s child,

but oh no, we can’t afford twenty pounds for struggling families;

after all, we have food banks for that. Driving through Glasgow,

visible to all, is the sight of desperate people queueing to receive charity.

What’s next? Reopening work houses-make them earn the scraps

they are thrown, after all, they are not deserving of such charity.

With this I agree-they deserve much more-dignity and respect-not

the contempt that comes from people who should know better.

Why stop at the workhouse? The poor don’t need a five day week;

then I remember-they work most days in low paid jobs,

hoping that this week they have enough to get by.

It seems to be the norm-I ask myself ,why?

How will this all end? Let the Brothers Grimm have their say;

will the fathers (and mothers) of this nation free up the elderly and the poor,

from the stomach of this pack of big bad wolves-one swing of the media’s hatchet,

revealing truths instead of dancing to the government’s tune?

As Solomon says, ‘Nothing is new under the sun; what has been will be again.’

This season of Tory entitlement will end, but the poisoned root will remain;

waiting in the wings, alongside the spirit of the antichrist, for the right time

to re-emerge and destroy all that is good. The love of money is above all things vile.


9 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