Song of the Labouring Poor

(written after the burial of Margaret Thatcher)

We’re all as rich as Croesus now
and the labouring poor is no more.
Class war went of the window;
and, instead, we have social rapport.

Since Marx was proved wrong, the militant left –
and it never did know what was what –
has found itself bruised and divided,
bereft of all hope and sans plot.

Today we have ‘strivers’ and those who ‘aspire’
and consumers hell-bent to consume;
but, try to disguise it however you may,
the truth is it’s all bust and boom.

Joe Public won’t even get angry
at the way the big banks carry on:
he’s stupid and slow and appears not to know
how the great money swindle was done.

No one believes in the family of man;
it’s every man jack for himself.
It’s less about truth and conviction than
power and status and personal wealth.

At the top it’s all champagne and roses
and, while those in the middle get squeezed,
they still get to look down their noses
at the class this last century deceived.

But it may be the time is for turning:
this circus may prove the last straw.
The bonfire she lit is still burning:
may its torches not light us to war?

 

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