When you could see the ribs of the poor

and the fat man watered their beer.

You knew who got exploited

You knew who to pity or fear.

The waif who was wan with rickety knees,

the rich man deaf to his desperate pleas,

died of consumption or killed at the loom.

Nothing marked his pauper tomb.

Now we have underprivileged

who are fat and spotty and rude.

While the super rich are toned and trim,

helping the starving grow food.

An oil rich man with a yacht or two

and a football club for fun

is an easy shot for the feckless lot

who think they have been hard done.

The fat cats they say are parasites

bloated on ill earned gains,

but who is tied to their Blackberry

and who on a couch just lays?

A thirty stone woman

wheezes and pants

the fifty hard yards

to the pub.

There she labours through

five portions a day

of alcohol, burger, nicotine, pizza

and pure, pure ecstasy.

 

Her loutish lover leers

through smack wracked, bloodshot eyes

at the writhing teenage arse

framed by a thin black thong.

A blotchy beau with spike pierced cheeks

leaps to honour's cause.

He and Mr Stanley

will carve respect on cheeky jaws.

Through blood and screams the medics work

to save these wasted lives.

Their patients kick and shout abuse

at those who treat their wounds.

Like education, that they valued,

free health care is their right.

They use it every weekend

after drinking through the night.

The woman lurches homeward

to her seven dadless kids.

They have their chips and Gameboy

and the freedom of the streets.

Just a normal family

struggling through life.

The fat cats are just ignorant

of the poor who have such strife.