Quiet hopeless calm in a sweat filled
room
This room of desperate tragedy
Hated and blamed for a crisis caused by
the rich
Charge with the crime of being poor
Local cuts mean your bus is late
Installs fear as you take your place in
line
Looking round seeing others, a mirror
of you
Wide eyed and fear in theirs eyes
Thinking how will I feed my babes?
You can hear the sounds from the ones
already processed
On this production line of sorrow
Some weep like babies, for their poor
babies
Others get enraged another incident
logged
The assistants sharing this fear
Fear of being put in a must improve
A must improve, and a line up for them
too
The manager a pillory of pomposity
Hiding behind rules that are a mask for
hate
The manager half your age dumb down
Indoctrinated to discriminate, all for
the hate of you
The Manager so prim and proper, so
respectable
Shuffling around like they have a
toffee apple stuffed up there well fed arse
You were once a proud soldier of King
Arthur
Now reduced to a bit part in a freak
show
You once worked the Mines or steel
Mills for years
Worked so hard and long, Work just
worked you out
Clapped out lungs and a back of glass
Being looked at in contempt by the
ones,
Who know nothing other than Benefit
Street for fools?
Acting on orders to look down on you
But its ok the Media has done a first
rate job on you
They turned us from proud Fathers and
Mothers into sub human species
For mocking, shocking, and stocking
They slap the sanction on you
The manager looking like, their having
a multiple orgasm
All in a day in the line up of
intolerance
Another victim of a brutalised state
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