Costings.

Nothing suggests a protest more,
than the smashing down of one more door
and the picking up off one more floor of another fallen crown.
Smash things down
let them be rebuilt
(one more tilt at a windmill)
still
it’s nice to dream.

I seem to dream an awful lot these days
cast my life away into a gaze,another one thousand yard stare
but no soldiers there just prison guards that walk around with us in our prison yard
and don’t we take it hard ,when the door is smashed and we realise that what we see is just the same as it will always be,
the dumping ground
make no sound or you’ll be targeted and found another place and in your place someone else will step into your prison cell.

It’s nice to dream?
like hell,excuse me I don’t feel so feckin well
we’ve all been screwed,used and abused by selfish men
who promise freedom but only when and if they ever decide to decide and in the meantime hide away on south sea islands
where they play the altruist,
well it pisses me off no end and no end to this I see
no confiture for you and me
we’ll have to eat the crusts of bread,dipped slowly in the bowls of gruel and how could fools like us be taken in
and fools we are for learning krap in krappy schools where education is dumbed down and more fool than that
we then went cap in hand to ask employment of the man
who lapped it up
slapped us down and paid us half a crown to make believe that we were Gods, able to buy those odds and sods and settle in for one more Winter night beside a fire that barely lit, and an outside privy where we would sit and shiver.

The only joy I ever had was poaching on Lord Sefton’s private river
and who gave that fat swine the right to steal a river as if a river might be ever owned.

I moan a lot and groan a lot but never seem to have a lot
the cooking pot lays empty on the range
not strange
just the poor of days we’re in.

One more grin
wipe behind my ears
pretend that I have shed no tears and go out to the tally man, to tally up and he can tell me what is due
I am the few
the many of many who haven’t any
won’t get much
a touch upon my shoulder,
‘Excuse me sir, there seems to be a fishtail poking from your bag,come with me to jail,become one more old lag’
more than enough of them and more to come
start smashing doors let’s have some fun
God knows we don’t get enough.
copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved

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