Worker Poem by David Harris

Eight or more hours you work everyday,
to earn your weekly wage, opening it,
look in disgust with what you made.
Therefore, off on strike you go, to cause a little fuss.
The PM beams a fat face,
from your television screen,
say you must go back to work,
and live within your means.
You look at him angrily,
saying, “you silly fool.
I’d be better clothed and fed
if I lived off the dole.”

It is all right for him,
with his thousands a year,
but what about us poor workers
on forty pound a week,
whose monies gone,
before we even, see it.
That does not tweak.

Join the Common Market;
they herald their mournful cry.
It is the first stop to paradise,
but that was just another lie.
Food went up left, right and centre,
thousands landed on the dole.
While parliament got fatter,
and we were the ones to fall.
Taxes rose like tyrants,
to keep the bread from our mouths.
The poor kids lost their school milk
to these educated louts.
Live within your mean they say,
we do not give a damn,
we are the ones in power.
We are going to milk this land.

Milk the land they did by heck,
from every mother’s son.
A PM we never voted for
sits like a king on his throne.
I do not want an election now;
I’d probably never get in again.
The Chancellor of Exchequer,
he lives next door,
sits preparing a budget,
that none of us is looking forward for.

Prices rise daily just to keep us poor,
seems they are out to starve us,
that is all we are sure of anymore,
and trying to bar the bailiff from the front door.
Consideration for the men who work,
to earn a decent pay. There isn’t any there,
all they are out for,
is to see you in an early grave.
You speak out against them,
they call you commie scum,
but they are the ones
with the red flag flying from their bum.