Bitter men in unsprung masses,
Gnawing and scratching with unrelenting crassness,
at Britain's most ailed in underpasses,
red white and blue with a fasces,
there's conflict in our classes,
because deep in our crevasses,
as the capitalist machine advances,
the working class spirit lapses.
Bitter men drawn to ways of old,
"this is my bit, my stronghold"
brash men cast of iron mould,
and to those of us appalled,
but whispered stories left untold.
as the capitalist machine stays cold,
the working classes bones are sold.
Bitter men know no rules,
Led blindly by incompetent fools,
lets open the pubs and the schools,
desperate to feed our hungry ghouls,
on broken backs of tired mules,
chattering teeth that ridicules,
experts replaced by utter tools,
as the capitalist machine ensues,
the working class sold for revenue.
No gods, No Masters
Wednesday, September 23, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: politics