To incite the public to riot
lance with political precision,
divisive of course for to make
the division and a hubbub ensues.
This is not of our making and most certainly not for the wanting that’s taking the bread from the mouths of our children.
tally man at the door men
and TV license men
all want a piece of you and you with your eyes on the inside of your empty pockets with emery stitched hands scratching at chamois ain’t got that fat or far enough away from the grey men yet.
There is time to drop your bombs on a parliament and time even more to discuss, but us men, unhappy men even when we are the men who’ve got, have got no time at all.
We might as well piss in the wind ’cause our voices come back in the lost echoes of Drachmas, islands we are and will sink without trace,
I face the facts such as they seem.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.