So many lives, so many hopes and dreams,

They all finish loaded on the scrapheap,

Piled high into one moist organic hump,

Where, some decades later, the needy poor

Will hollow out hovels to dodge the cold,

And some bright spark will soon call it recycling

And trumpet this sham as sustainable.

Then celebrities will come, and sleep out,

In self-pleasuring solidarity,

And clowns and acrobats will entertain.

Every ten years, someone will remember

To commemorate the originals

With speeches, boy bands and an archbishop,

And all will dance, trying not to disturb

The destitute, still hiding in their holes.